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Modern Alchemist 

And Other Poems by 

LEE WILSON DODD 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Modern Alchemist 



and Other Poems 



Lee Wilson Dodd 




Boston : Richard G. Badger 

The Gorham Press 

1906 



Copyright 1906 by L. W. Dodd 
All Rights Reserved a 



6 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

JUN 13 1906 

f) Copyright Entry 

mm 






The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy 
of the Editors of The Century, Harper's, Outing, 
The Metropolitan and Life, in permitting him to 
include in this volume such of these verses as 
they have published. . 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



TO MY FATHER 



Contents 

PAGE 

To a Possible Reader 7 

A Modern Alchemist 8 

What the Coroner Found 11 

To the Gods of Greece 16 

The Goddess 17 

To V. V. M. B , . 17 

Looking Backward 19 

A Foot Note to "La Saisiaz" 20 

Find Wings ! 21 

A Modern Dramatic Poet to His Elder Kin 22 

Lathos and Elna 24 

To the Unknown Mistress 2y 

The Bullfinch 28 

In a Tower Chamber 30 

Invocation 32 

More Life . . More ! 32 

The Good Ship "Thistledown" 33 

Wayfellows 34 

Song 35 

Idyl 36 

The Judges 37 

"The Scab" 39 

"I Have Forgotten Tears" 40 

The Dreamers 41 

The Emissary 42 

Salome 44 

A Prayer to Death 45 

The Two Deaths 46 

At the Threshold 47 



PAGE 

"Peace ! Count the Clock I" 48 

Challenge ! 49 

Adonis to Aphrodite 50 

Aftermath 51 

Ode 53 

Beneath Apple Boughs 53 

In the Silence 55 

The Old Poet to His Soul's Friend 56 

The Poet 57 

A Poet's Prayer 57 

A Decadent Poet 57 

Ave , 58 

Insight 58 

The Deaf Poet to His Mistress 59 

To My Mistress . . Poesy 59 

Love and the Poet 59 

The Ne'er-do- Well 60 

For One" Singing 60 

Word Weariness 61 

Battery Park 61 

Zany - Whiles 65 

Lines for a Roumanian Air 66 

A Nameless Epitaph 66 

Lines for a Little Drawing 67 . 

Audax 67 

"Antilha" 67 

Irrecoverable 68 

Aperto Vivere Voto 69 

Matins 69 

The Debutante 69 

Love's Pilgrimage 70 



PAGE 

Home 72 

Defenceless 72 

Waiting 73 

Mid-Passion 73 

A Last Plea 74 

Invocation 74 

Gifts 75 

Winter Evening — Central Park 75 

Isolation 76 

Epicurus, His Garden 76 

Thales yy 

"The Last Token" yy 

The Delphic Sybil 78 

Giorgione to His Mistress . . . 79 

Looking Forward 79 

Cypselus 79 

Fragment of an "Electra" 82 

Necessity 84 

Faith 85 

St. Bernard's Prayer to the Virgin 85 

Landorian 86 

Lines 86 

Nocturne 87 

Art for the Soul's Sake 88 

Lost 88 

Circe 89 

Martha 90 

Lines Written on the Fly Leaf of Hseckle's 

"The Riddle of the Universe" 90 

Forgiveness 91 

A Word of Protest 93 



PAGE 

Milicent and Mirabella 

Milicent and Mirabella 97 

From the Book of Youth 

I 117 

II Youth's Nocturne 117 

III Song 118 

IV 119 

V Lute Song- for — 120 

VI Avant Avril 121 

VII 122 

VIII Oyez ! Oyez ! 122 

IX 123 

X 124 

XI 125 

XII 126 

XIII The Immutable 126 

XIV Lyric Wayfaring — 127 

XV 128 

XVI 129 

XVII To Phyllis 129 

XVIII 131 

XIX 132 

XX 132 

XXI 133 

Vale 135 



TO A POSSIBLE READER 

Friend, if you read, read wisely, nor believe 
Grief's name is graven here because I grieve, 
Nor when I sing love's passion deem that I 
Have felt each worded rapture sigh for sigh ! 
Life I interpret as I may, but keep 
Myself a secret where all secrets sleep. 

All men have loved, I fancy, once or twice — 
Once were enough a poet to suffice ! 
All men have sorrowed, have known bitter- 
ness — 
Were all men poets they could do no less. 
My art, you see, is just to take a hint, 
Expand, and make it permanent in print. 

Read, then, in candor, if you read at all, 
Nor pluck my mystery from a rhythmic scrawl ; 
I would not have you think me all I seem 
In these illuding mimicries of dream. 
Just take me for the work's sake; if I write 
Well — you may praise a little . . Friend, good- 
night ! 



A MODERN ALCHEMIST 

No senile relic of old ignorance, 

Capped in black velvet, habited in gloom, 

White-bearded, marked with moons, and littered 

round 
With mummied store and crooked crucible : 
No; but a man alert, though bowed with age, 
Close shaven, clean of eye, with flickering hands 
Quick to express, if impotent to seize, 
The eternal irresistible mystery . . . 
Life, and its impulse; death, and its decay. 

To play with life ! 

To take it like a toy in these lean hands, 

Shaping it to my whim ! . . Were this not 

worth 
Infinite toil and sleep-forgotten hours ? 
Long have I lived and labored; the secret still 
Eludes : what shall it profit me ? I grow 
Old, and a fever spot burns in each cheek 
Like creeping fire in parchment . . . 
To play with life ! 

How the hope glimmers up within my brain ! 
Into my thought almost the secret springs 
Full-flowered .'. a barren seedling! . . . 

Minikin efts, 
Low, spongy growths of the inveterate sea, 
Eggs of the urchin, frond, and filmy fin 
Winnowing the waters with their light de- 
sires ... 
Whence are these things ? Wherein resides their 



power 



What passion animates the speck of form 

Safe in its spiny, labyrinthine cave? 

What law destroys, what mightier law ensures 

8 



Continuance out of change, the will to be? 
Might I not bring these forth before me . . . 

now? 
Might I not build them up with cunning care, 
Mingling the sudden violent elements 
Till the one force that we call Life be freed ? 
Might I not mould them to some nobler being, 
Feed them with alien purposes, and fashion 
The outward seeming to the inward urge? 
. . Nay! but this were some triumph in a world 
Grown old and weary, grown old with question- 
ing, 
Weary of seeking answers, to no end. 
. . To do this thing, triumph ! . . and then to 
die . . . 

Wherefore to die! . . . 

Life once within my grasp, might I not snatch 
Infinite being from oblivion, 
Teach pain forgetfulness, and defying death 
Loosen immortal joy throughout the world! 
This were some triumph too! . . . 

But I am old, 
Old and enfeebled, and the secret still 
(Though traced even to the final veil, all else 
Dissolved and purged away) nimbly escapes, 
Mocking my struggle . . . 

Younger men shall thrive, 
Shall tear the secret from me, and the palm. 
And I shall wither and die, having sacrificed 
All the swift-footed ecstasy of youth, 
Prime's vigor, and the fire-side solaces 
Of wife and wondering children, to this one 
Desire ; slave to my purpose, allured at length 
Into a lonely and desolate decay . . . 
Having mocked at life, and lost it ! 



No ! Once more ! 
Once more! ... . 

Too late . . it is too late. Who knows 
But that I sought death shall unmask for me? 
No . . cruel ! no ! . . Infinite sleep were best. 
For I am tired of truth and would pass on 
Into that silence where all truth lies hid, 
Into the ultimate silence ; or live again 
Through delicate forms that question not nor 

strive, 
Ferns, and the April flowers, faultless and frail, 
Violets, or fantastic columbine; 
All gracious folk who live and love the sun, 
And morning dews, and the cool palm of night 
Closing their senses up . . . 
All intimate folk who live and are content, 
Feeling no impulse curse vitality 
With the disease of an unending quest, 
With the eternal impotence of toil. 

. . Too late ! It is too late . . . 

"To play with life" . . 
How vain it seems now that Death touches me 
Upon the shoulder, saying . . "Come." 

. . I come. 



10 



WHAT THE CORONER FOUND 

Dearest and Best : — I will not feign a name 
To love you by, as lordlier poets use; 

I would not fill your ears with needless shame, 
Nor offer love your handmaid would refuse. 

I write to you because I dream and live . . . 

Praying for foolish gifts you may not give. 

It is not that I hope through some far chance 
To move you with a word's sincerity; 

Love who was wakened in me at a glance 
Speaks but in broken phrases : "Pity me," 

Masks in a beggar's whine a broken heart; 

Love, all a tyrant, leaves no scope for art. 

And I am not your equal, scarce your slave 
To serve you, since you have forgotten now 

The lad you rescued from his sheeted grave, 
Laying your palm, gently, upon his brow . . . 

O God of Love, what life lives in a touch 

To give, unknowing, and to take so much! 

You have forgotten. I remember still 

Through all the languid hours of all the days 

Your step, and how your presence seemed to fill 
The room with music and my soul with praise, 

The pallid toneless room, wherein I grew 

Silent, a thing of shadow . . . lacking you. 

There, if I turned my head, the lessening cots 
Marked each his burden of unmastered pain; 

There crept such stealthy, slow, devouring 
thoughts 
As feed like vampires on the febrile brain; 

And there came peace upon me for a while, 

Peace, and the patient wonder of a smile. 

ii 



Peace, for a time; then tyrannous slavery: 

That which was tranquil in me turned to love; 
And then I called on Death to set me free, 
Praying wild prayers you will know nothing 
of: 
But Death was far from me, great Love was 

lord; 
And I, His creature, trembled at a word. 

One day you came no more. I guessed the end 
Of all my hopes, knowing what hope was 
dead. 

Another duty claimed you for a friend; 
Elsewhere you ministered, the nurses said, 

While yet I smiled upon them. Was it wise 

To smile thus bravely out of paradise? 

Ah, was it wise? I know not. Had I but cried 

Aloud for you, had I cried out your name 
Then, it may be . . . No, no, it is too wide 
This chasm betwixt us! . . .Yet, had I 
striven for fame, 
Risen for your sake to fame, coined my rich 

youth 
To serve you . . . Peace : better to serve the 
truth. 

The Truth! Life fashions it as Fate com- 
mands : — 

Being what I am my love was sacrilege. 
Still, still I dream somewhither in far lands, 

Passing some temple gate, turning some page, 
I shall look up and find you waiting . . . No! 
Such dreams are banished many months ago. 

12 



For if I love, no less my thought is clear : 
And this I know, love fashions not man's fate ; 

And this I know, having once lost you here 
My dreams are powerless. Through the ivory 
gate 

Such phantoms pass to cheat our souls ; but I 

Found not my future's fabric on the lie. 

No : you are you, treading appointed ways, 
And I am I. The mean and sordid stairs 

That scramble to my attic, the foul haze 

Of squalid kitchens, all that drives and dares 

Man's soul to batter at the gates of death, 

Dispart us. No ; we breath no common breath. 

But in the silence still I turn to you. 

The slender silence; for at last there comes 
Even upon this grimy hive a few 

Brief hours when the close swarm no longer 
hums. 
O weary, O unprofitable bees, 
That you must waken from such hours as these ! 

Why must you waken to the harsh control 
Of hunger and of habit and of crime? 

Is there no thought of peace at the world's soul, 
No wharfage down the pitiless tide of time? 

Must you for ever turn again to win 

Life's miserable pittance for your sin? 

And I, what rest for me? I need no rest 

Who have known love ; I need no other thing, 

Having of all unconquered things the best, 
The power of loving and the will to sing . . . 

To sing her praise who touched my heart with 
_ song, 

Waiting alone — still waiting — ah, how long ! 

13 



Ever, for ever . . . The hooded hours renew 
Their vigil; one, touching my lips, sets free 

Words beautiful and terrible and true, 

Charged with a sense of alien mystery . . . 

Of things which are not, though we feel they 
are; 

Brave singing islands off the outer star! 

O eyes that fed in mine the impalpable 
Adventurous vision of unfolding love ! 

O voice more moving than a merman's shell! 
O hands of gentle influence ! Above 

All streams of earthly hope, must not my soul 

Flame at your temples like an aureole! 

Ay, and what then? O folly, O unrest, 

To dream away the laws of all the world . . . 

To mould the future to a poet's test, 

Scrolling the heavens like a roseleaf curled ! 

O infinite unquenchable desire . . . 

Flame of life's flame, of secret fire, the fire ! 

. . . A woman's scream! My window blind 
with frost 
Shuts out the blackened squalor of the court. 
Poor tortured wife, were not your pains well 
lost 
In sleep? . . .Just God! That instant, sure 
report . . 
Men calling through the barracks . . one who 

said 
Coarsely above the clamor — "Nell is dead." 

Dead — "Nell" is dead ; frail siren of the streets, 
Love-starved, with lips reddened to summon 
shame . . 

14 



To-morrow's tale is written. Vulturous sheets 

Which lend the fallen miserable fame 
Will mark the spot, counting the tale well told. 
But "Nell" is dead; poor "Nell" was overbold. 

Ah ! all my dreams of you are dead . . I must 
Go down to her, Nell, reckless Nell ! The girl 

Was young for crime and over-young for dust. 
Her pretty hair was tangled curl on curl 

Over her head; the shallow little brain 

Idles no more; she has forgotten pain. 

She has forgotten pain ... I must go down 
To where she lies, and elbow past the men 

Who press about her staring at the gown 

Stained with new blood, go down to her 
. . . and then, 

then perhaps I shall return and know 
Why life yields unto death. 'Tis better so. 

'Tis better so : death quiets life. This night 
So much the still face of a courtesan 

Has taught me, showing strangely calm and 
white 
Under its rouge, peaceful and strangely wan, 

As if tired into silence. Death, through her, 

Invokes the incense of a worshipper. 

And thus I burn due incense 

Dearest and Best, 

1 pass beyond the oblivion of your dreams 
Whither, some guess, Love shall make manifest 
Love, and unite Hope's tenuous, iterate gleams 
For ever . . . beyond the oblivion of your 

thought, 
Whither, some guess, oblivion soothes unsought. 



15 



TO THE GODS OF GREECE 

Why must we turn to you, long-exiled Gods, 
Yet turn and worship at dismantled shrines 
With other rites than prayer and sacrifice, 
And wine poured out and coronals of flowers? 
Our land bears not the olive willingly, 
Nor do the rough heels of our village girls 
Trample the sodden grapes to foaming wine ; 
There is no august presence on these hills 
Of pillared temple and cool portico, 
Nor from an hundred pediments of stone 
Do you, ye measured Gods, rebuke our toil 
With the disdainful silence of repose. 

And yet we turn to you, as if indeed 

Some quivering Naiad lurked within these 

streams, 
Some frantic Satyr scampered down the glades! 
Wearied we turn to you and offer praise 
(Not as in Greece men praised you and were 

glad), 
But sadly, without faith, with aching hearts 
That fain would know the secret of your calm, 
As of a nobler, an austerer kind, 
Who dwell above the strangled tide of strife, 
Serene, unvexed, severely beautiful, 
Holding at heart the certitude of peace. 

Thus, now, we turn to you, ye Gods, though now 

We deem ye are not, and that life must run 

Ever and ever onward as a dream, 

Ever and ever onward, and at last 

The fever-tide be spent and earth find rest 

Implacable and pale like the dumb moon. 



16 



THE GODDESS 

Only above me the unmeasured arch 

Swept with wide-circling stars, below, the 

plain — 
Measureless ; and beside me, carved in snow — 
The Goddess! . . at her feet I lay as dead. 
Her gaze poured round the silence of my swoon 
A vaster silence ; when she spake, each word 
Seemed cut in alabaster to endure. 
— But I have long forgot the words she 

spake . . . 
And I have long forgotten how I came 
Into that faultless presence. Not suddenly 
From the sad agitations of my kind, 
Not suddenly, but after arduous toil, 
Had I won upward to the gleaming feet, 
Won to the faultless presence . . . 

Only above 
The unmeasured dome of silence, the mute stars ; 
Below — the plain ; beside me, carved in snow — 
The Goddess! . . At her feet I fell. And now, 
Once more a bond-slave of the alien plain, 
What the sure voice spake in my stricken heart 
Blurs to the wordless music of the sea. 

But I have seen that Goddess ere I die ! 



TO V. V. M. B. 

Dear Poet : — We have loved too well 

The things of earth to shirk their praise; 

Yet have we not twined asphodel 
Or won the bays. 

17 



Who cares for crowning leaves? Not we. 

The busy city hems us in : 
We'll tell our tales for two or three 

Amid the din. 

And if in all a world of men 

Are two or three who like our tales, 

We'll tell them over once again 
Before life fails. 

One mutual Mistress we have known, 
Served Her according to our best : 

Who ask for bread She gives a stone, 
Their love to test. 

Well, we shall stand the test — be true. 

She'll smile upon us now and then ; 
A smile for me, — a smile for you, 

To guide our pen. 

A little favor from Her brows 
Is worth the tumult of a sphere ; 

We shall win more than earth allows — 
So much is clear. 

Then, since we love the earth too well 
To shirk the triumph of its praise, 

What need of pallid asphodel, 
Or paltry bays? . . . 

Ours be the wisdom of the strong 

W r ho seeing Her, make known the bliss ! 

Building the fabric of their song 
To match with this. 



18 



LOOKING BACKWARD 

Vincent, my friend, 
The years offend 
With lonely flight, nor will they turn again, 
Having too long deferred 
The serious- jesting word 
Of comrades, cosy once within their cluttered 
den . . 

Ah, when? 

Vincent, not yet 

Our hearts forget 
The childish rapture, as a shivery pair 

We told of elvish hands, 

Of fierce marauding bands 
Craftily creeping on us in our quiet lair . . 
Ah, where? 

Vincent, but now 
The world's strong. vow 
(Duty or death) disparts us, and we sigh 
To think that nevermore, 
It may be, as of yore, 
We'll live as neighboring hearts, eye carolling 
to eye . . 

Why . . why! 



19 



A FOOT NOTE TO "LA SAISIAZ" 

"He there with the brand -flamboyant, broad o'er 

night's forlorn abyss, 
Crowned by prose and verse; and wielding, with 

Wit's bauble, Learning's rod . . . 
Well? Why, he at least believed in Soul, was 

very sure of God." 

He, at least! And we? . . O singer of the 

soul's transcendent might, 
Singer of the quenchless spirit, song-defier of the 

night, 
Thou hast said it, and we honor (even we who 

dare not glow 
With thy soul's divine assurance that the truth 

of God is so!), 
Yea, we honor thine undaunted faith in good 

which must endure — 
Honor, fain would be thine echo . . We, alas, 

who are not sure. 

Are not sure! We seldom-singers of the Hope 
that man most needs, 

We who have no balms for comfort of the deso- 
late heart that bleeds 

Into hungry silence, we who fear not to pro- 
claim the darker close, 

Yet fail here in full assurance of implacable re- 
pose! 

Thou at least couldst leap beyond the maddening 

torture of the quest, 
Thou at least couldst trumpet forth the stirring 

clarion "Love is best, 



20 



"Best because the one eternal, irrepressible force 

that strives 
"Upward, though the enclosing fleshly clutches 

and with death connives !" 

We — alas ! Our loves are mortal ; fleshly — 
no! but sadder far 

In their infinite wistful partings than libidinous 
loves that bar 

All life holds of inspiration toward some ulti- 
mate righteousness . . . 

We — alas ! our loves are mortal . . We who 
love no good the less 

That we deem it time-encircled; we who strive 
though strife be vain 

Starkly for the sheer perfection few perceive — 
and none attain. 

Yet, we hail — would fain re-echo to the stars 

thy valorous cry, 
Singer of the Soul whose infinite passion was not 

born to die ; 
Crowned by prose and verse, we hail thee, urger 

of the aspiring clod 
Man! . . Ay, thou at least believed in Soul, 

wast very sure of God ! 

FIND WINGS! 

Joy after all is best; we grieve 

Too easily, we modern folk ; 
The dreams we cannot now believe, 

Ah, let them vanish ! Smoke is smoke. 

We waste our lives in vain regret 
For visions that our fathers knew; 

Now it is noon, we must forget 
Earth's morning magic. Dew is dew. 

21 



Now it is noon ! The full-orbed sun 
Pours on the earth its fertile rain; 

Life in its fulness has begun — 

Joy beckons ! Shall we skulk with pain, 

Hide in dim corners of the past 

Like carrion worms that dread the light? 
O, let us find new wings ! Too fast 

We cling to the damp vaults of night ! 

Find wings ! The sun will quicken them, 

Will feed them through with strengthening 
fire, 

Will lure them heavenward, will outgem 
Their vans beyond the eye's desire. 

Find wings — away ! The earth shall burn 

An intense emerald, the sea 
Shall be one sapphire, and return 

The sun's superb redundancy. 

Life in its noontide ecstasy, 

Its shimmering tissue of delight — 

O make of it a home ! Set free 

Your soul from sorrow's cancerous blight! 

Your palace waits . . The impassioned air, 
The purple splendors of the day : — 

Joy, joy is best! O, have a care 

Lest noontide fail! . . Find wings! Away! 



A MODERN DRAMATIC POET TO HIS 
ELDER KIN 

Well, I am man as ye were . . greeting then, 
And would to God I might clasp hands with you ! 
My puny fists within your mightier palms 

22 



Might serve at least for jesting. Swords or 

staves . . 
These were your playthings ! We have other 

toys. 
Strange how the intenser music of your speech, 
Full toned, harmonious, drowns my childish 

treble ! 
Nevertheless I call you up by name . . 
Brother and brother; bid you welcome, speak 
Such frozen words as have been given me 
For praise. I mark your wonder. Where (you 

ask) 
Where got yon pigmy fellow his ambition? 
Are such our children . . starveling brats? 

What song 
Shall burst from this o'er-dwindled race? . . 

And yet 
We weave more intricate melodies than yours, 
Great-chested roisterers ! With finer ears 
To note the approaching hint of some far flaw, 
And shudder toward the pang. Again you stare ! 
. . Confession now — Yours are the vital 

voices. 
Still they reverberate, still, still are found 
To roll a deeper undersong than we 
Can mate or master! Yours it was to sing . . 
Ours to refine your themes and vary them 
With iterative ingenuity. 
Laugh at us if ye will and must ; our heads 
Are bowed. The coarser strength that lets you 

laugh 
Bears down our febrile indignation. Triumph! 
Still are ye Kings, who rule us from the grave. 



23 



LATHOS AND ELNA 
Lathos 

We are the goal of all this suffering; 

We live and we depart . . but to what end ? 

Elna 

If we had loved imperfectly, ah then 
I should have fear, and ask as you do . . 
whither ? 

Lathos 
Have you no fear? 

Elna, simply 
No fear. 

Lathos 

Do you not feel 
That we must in the pulsing of an hour 
Share in oblivion? 

Elna 

Have we not loved 
Perfectly ? 

Lathos 

Elna ! . . But have we not known 
Perfectly? Have we not with temperate minds 
Followed the single impulses of truth . . 
And shall we now, being supreme, forget ? 



24 



Elna 

What is it to forget? The second nears 
Shall snatch us into chaos ! Has the world 
Given us birth for this ? Out of our love 
Is there no flower of permanence? 

Lathos 

The truth ! 
I shrink not from the truth ! We are the flower, 
The ultimate blossom of earth's martyrdom ! 
Here in this instant of felicity 
The purpose is accomplished. 

Elna 

But for whom? 
Why . . whither blown away . . and to what 
end? 

Lathos 
Still must you question, Elna? 

Elna 

Still believe! 
Yours are the questions, yours the unvanquished 

doubt ! 
And yet I chide you not. To me it seems 
We stand for something greater than ourselves: 
You for a greater doubt, I for a faith 
As great . . never quite fused, yet ever near. 

Lathos 

Elna, are we not one inseparably 
Now? 

25 



Elna 

— But forever? 

Lathos 

Elna ! Give me your hands !• 
I will not lose you . . say that we are one, 
That faith and doubt meet in our love and fuse 
Into the one clear truth . . . 

(It grozvs suddenly darker.) 

Elna, faintly 

The one clear Truth . . 
(more faintly) How dark it grows . . how 
dark . . . 

Lathos 
Give me your hands 



26 



TO THE UNKNOWN MISTRESS 

I have not found — nor have I sought for you. 
Somewhere you lurk, I doubt not, and my eyes 
Will lighten to your glance with young surprise, 
And my heart take the clue. 

The clue that leads all men to one sole maid, 
The clue that maddens when it does not bless, 
The clue to devious hell, or happiness . . . 
I shall not be afraid. 

(For I have caught rare gleams from generous 

eyes, 
Have heard kind whisperings from prelusive lips, 
Have castled Spain, and have awaited ships 
Where hope's horizon dies.) 

I shall not be afraid. I dare not seek . . . 
You, when you near, will find me at my task ; 
Will stop perhaps to wonder, or to ask 
A question ere I speak? 

For love I know is golden only thus 
When irretrievably he steps between 
The worker and his work, that subtle screen 
Designed to shelter us. 

There if love foots it I must welcome him. 
I shall put by all labor when you come, 
And say "Behold my bridal gift — the Sum, 
Wrought for my lady's whim !" 

So may you put your hand in mine. But when 
(If ever) your feet would wander from my side, 
Sweet, go your ways ! Surely the world is wide ? 
— I'll to my task again. 

27 



Or if I cheat myself, and you evade 
My life for ever, passing too swiftly by — 
What then ? Love never born can never die, 
Nor be of death afraid. 

Unsought ! Unfound ! Lo, where I raise my 

heart 
A secret Temple ! Pass freely in, if Fate 
Beckon . . . There is no warder at the gate! 

— It shuts when you depart. 



THE BULLFINCH 

No, I'll not mock. Tell me again the tale 
About your bird. He was a Prince, you say, 
Set out from Thessaly with bellying sail 
Unto that island of the Extremest Day. 
There in a cell carved from a ruby-stone 
A prisoned Princess paled and plained alone. 

"Where is the lover who will ransom me? 

Fair is the lover whom in dreams I see. 

Noiv comes the white-rose to the red-rose tree." 

How brave he was, how straight, how debonair, 
How the wind sang to him of love and war ! 
All that a man might dream of he would dare . . 
Was not the Princess worth long striving for? 
How his eye falconed ! how he spurned the West, 
Strung to his purpose, vivid to his quest! 

Long, long he sailed . . (I hear your voice, I 

see 
Your eyes grown sombre as with inward sight 
They follow him from fruitful Thessaly 

28 



Down the dim, intricate star-paths of the 

night) . . 
Long, long he sailed ; and I too saw his smile, 
Shadowed in yours, when first he gained the Isle. 

Then to the ruby prison how he toiled! 
Over the diamond rocks where sea-things lay, 
Searching of claw and tentacle, still foiled 
By the keen sword that shore them fast away: 
And in the end all dangers dared and past 
The fiery dome full-fronted him at last. 

But how to win her? . . (Ah, your voice again, 
Hushed to a sigh with love's sad mystery!) . . 
Few could approach so bright it shone, nor then 
Could pass the flaming portals, find the key, 
Speak the unspoken words ! . . Ah, I forget 
Love's spell . . Your tone, your triumph in- 
spire me yet! 

Was she not glorious for love of him ! 
Were they not fair . . twin children of the sun ! 
(And you, your pensive beauty seemed to swim 
Into my blood . . "Dearest, what have I done ? 
Forgive me, love me !" . . Swifter was your 

flight!) 
. . Tell me that story over, dear, to-night. 

Flow came the white-rose Princeling to this 

form — 
A little bullfinch with ensanguined breast? 
. . Hark, at the lattice, how the brutal storm 
Ramps for an entry to our summer nest! 
. . . Tell me that story over, dear ; Love seems 
More real between us for his gift of dreams. 



29 



IN A TOWER CHAMBER 

(The Seven Princesses are present, working a 
tapestry.) 

The Princess Rosaline 
Love is a tyrant ! 

The Princess Mirabel 
Nay, Love is a child . . 

The Princess Cecily 

You are a child I think, my Mirabel! 
What can you know of Love ? 

The Princess Mirabel 

As much, mayhap, 
As you, dear Cecily . . 

The Princess Marianne 

Hush, sister, Love . . 
Love is nor child, nor tyrant, 'tis a toy, 
A little idle whistle whereon the lips 
Of men and maids pipe gallantly in spring. 

The Princess Fiammetta 

Love is a flame, say I, no flood can drown; 
It feeds on tears as tigers feed on blood: 
'Tis mightier . . 

The Princess Columbine 

Tut! Love's very like a kitten: 
Stroke him he's soft and warm and comfortable, 
Purrs lazily to show he's innocent, 
Is playful, too . . 

30 



The Princess Heloise 

Enough, poor Columbine, 
Your graceful kitten Love is none of mine. 
Love shows for me a pair of shadowy wings . . 

The Princess Columbine 
Is he a bird . . or angel ? 

The Princess Heloise 

Bards and Kings 
Have held him for a God ! . . 

The Princess Marianne 

I'll never bow 
My head, then . . 

The Princess Columbine 

Pray, dear sister, tell us how 
He won his godship ? 

The Princess Mirabel 

By what trick of art? 

The Princess Heloise 
His fane he builded in a maiden's heart. 



INVOCATION 

Spirit of Life ! To thee, while yet clear blood 
Bounds from my heart with rapture born of 

youth, 
While yet some weft of leaping flame remains 
To kindle passion, while as yet my thoughts 
Pierce not to cold serenity beyond 
The flash of earthly love . . to thee my hymn 
Gives praise for intense being, timeless praise! 

Spirit of formless gladness, spirit of joy, 

Thrilling the Universe as poet's mind 

Swift thoughts disclosing beauty ! Chainless one, 

Chaotic, fetterless, yet closed within 

The tingling tip of the least leaf in spring! 

Spirit of very madness born of light! 

Thou, thou alone art worthy of ultimate praise 

Poured out from hearts that feel the throb of 

things, 
The secret pulses, the rhythms of the world ! 



MORE LIFE . . MORE! 

Set me over- the main again, 

Loose me for China, loose me for France, 
Give me to rolic through Spain again 

Or ever the years advance! 
Or ever the sordid clutch of the years 

Tear the leaping heart from my side, 
Grant me a gust of laughter and tears, 

And the breathing earth for bride! 

God of Wanderers ! send me the seas, 

Blustering blue-throats shagged at the nape 

3 2 



Shoulder me forth from my prison of ease, 
Spurn me from Cape to Cape! 

Lash me onward from Land to Land, 
Star-bronzed, stained with the brine ; 

With the roofless reach of the Iris-spanned 
Soul's lust, that is . . life ! be mine. 



THE GOOD SHIP "THISTLEDOWN" 

Brave men who cross the sea in ships 

And trail from town to town, 
Who weather the world on a hundred trips 
From Sandy Hook to Botany Bay, 
They only cruise but a little way 

In the wake of the "Thistledown." 

And life for them is hard and bleak, 
And many's the man must drown ; 
'Tis a sailor's fate the mad winds shriek 
From Sandy Hook to Botany Bay, — 
But the breeze holds true and the month is May 
In the wake of the "Thistledown." 

And the things you see and the things you hear 

Have never a common noun 
For name of truth to a traveller's ear 
From Sandy Hook to Botany Bay, 
When you sail to the Isles of the Far and Fey 

In the good ship "Thistledown" 

Brave men may cross the sea in ships 

And beat from town to town ; 
Some weather the world on a hundred trips 
From Sandy Hook to Botany Bay; 
But few have sundered the singing spray 

At the prow of the "Thistledown." 

33 



The man who feels that spray on his cheek 

Wears the starlight for a crown ; 
But the thing he feels he never can speak 
From Sandy Hook to Botany Bay, 
For he sings to himself in a wildish way, 
Fie sings to himself where the sea-girls play 
Round the good ship "Thistledoivn." 



WAYFELLOWS 

Do you know the Road to the Other Place, 

The Place that is never Here? 
Where life is sped with a finer grace, 

And men never weep, my dear? 
Know you that Pathway ? Fve sought it long . . 
But I only travel from Song to Song! 

The Road, they say, has never a post 

To point the perilous march ; 
Fve trudged from mountain to marshy coast, 

I've slept 'neath palm tree and larch; 
Lonely I've sought it, or plunged in the throng, 
As I journey onward from Song to Song. 

Is it a shadow trail to the Peaks, 

Rosed with the morning glow ? 
Surely a Way the whole world seeks 

Somebody, dear, must know? 
Surely together we can't go wrong . . 
If we only wander from Song to Song! 

Dear, what care we for the Other Place, 

The Place that is never Here? 
We've the wide, wide ways of the earth to trace 

Through the glow of a golden year ! 
May our hearts beat time as we stride along 
{Know ye this Pathway?) from Song to Song! 

34 



SONG 

Out, out into the night 

Under the open sky! 

Suck the wind till its cleansing breath 

Clears your soulless soul of death, 

And makes your languid eye, 

Its inner life set free, 

Sparkle frostily 

With reinspired delight! 

Forth to the fiery west 

For the hidden wealth of gold! 

Fairy lore? you disbelieve? 

'Tis the gold shall buy your soul's reprieve! 

Renew your faith of old : 

Stoutly trudge and lustily 

Strive, for rainbow gold may be 

A saving lure and quest! 

Up to the Milky-way 

On a shaft of instant thought ! 

Bathe in light and purity, 

Scorn malign security! 

Can delight be bought? 

Mount with haste the moonlight stair, 

Climb the Princess Sunbeam's hair . . 

Spurn the earth away! 



35 



IDYL 

Where? in what land? Whether beyond the 

earth, 
Or in some garden-silence, some wilderness 
Half-civil, wholly isolated, two — 
A man, a woman — met. Regal they were 
In bearing; if disdainful at the lips, 
Kind in the eyes; their equal speech serene. 
The valley where they walked lay wide and fair, 
Screened happily by wooded hills, but south 
Sinking in gradual blueness to the sea. 
A little river watered it and sang 
Sweetly along the pleasance of its way, 
A lucid rivulet sliding on unsoiled 
Over a bed of golden-seeming sand. 
Violets grew beside it: asphodels 
(If such they were), white flowers too frail for 

plucking, 
Poised like a bubble on the breathing reed : — 
Let him who fills the reed with breath, beware! 
Lest ere his eyes desire it vanisheth. 
Beautiful, beautiful was the day, no sun 
Ever filled valley-cup with brighter wine! 
Beautiful was the woman, beautiful 
In manly mould, the man! All day they moved 
Gladly together through their wide domain ; 
Gladly through flowering fields ; gladly at noon 
Where wizard oak-trees spread a shadowy lure; 
Gladly at evening where the river sang 
Hushed vesper music to the virginal stars. 

They loved . . 

Where? In what secret valley? . . 

Peace ! 
Tacitly thank me for a pictured hope. 



3 6 



THE JUDGES 

Hear, if you must, my dream ; dreams are the 

wild 
Unstudied phantoms of a soul oppressed : 
Put not your faith in dreams. 

I stood condemned 
Before an hundred Judges, clad in black, 
Whose silvered beards flowed down their breasts 

like rain. 
The room was vast, four-square, and lighted ill 
By sudden flames that leaped now here now 

there, 
Lacing the gloom at restless intervals. 
Before me kneeled a slave in ebony 
With covered face, and in his lifted hand 
He grasped an agate cup. 

Then, in my dream, 
I spoke, and the words issued from my lips 
As from another's, for I hearkened them 
As they had been another's : but, no less, 
The words were mine . . . 

"Judges, I am condemned 
To die : now if I speak my words shall be 
Brief, and if wisdom prompts them, better so. 

"I am a man, passionate like a man, 
Yet firm to purpose good ; all men are thus, 
Fashioned in some rude way, by some rude hand, 
Out of the sullen forces of the world. 
And I have lived not always honestly, 
Though hating all dishonor; and I have striven 
To cleanse my thought, though in the very act 
Some foul distemper fastened on my soul. 
Good have I done and evil, and have loved 
Strong men and clinging women ; men whose 
strength 

37 



Impelled me to some valorous deed, and women 
Whose weakness often vanquished me through 

tears. 
And one man I have hated with a hate 
Pent in the loathliest grotto of my soul ; 
And I have loved one woman with a love 
That conquered in me all abased desires. 
Let it suffice that manlike I have lived, 
That I have dared to suffer and enjoy, 
Nor ever called on death. Yet now I die. 

"Think not I cry upon you now for life, 
Who never called on death. Such life was mine 
As I must wonder at . . so full it seems, 
So full of things forgotten. Nor would I now 
Bring back the sleeping memories of past days ; 
For some were bitter sad : and if some hours 
Were meted to me for a keener joy 
Than now I know, this too I know, that joy 
Is brief, and in its briefness lies a pang. 

"Therefore I thank you now who have con- 
demned ; 
Yet not you verily, ye are but forms 
Hooded and cloaked about with seeming shade: 
But that sole Power I thank which gives us 

life . . 
(A breathing time, a crowded interval 
Qf strife and fervor amid the changing hours; 
An undeterred, incessant masquerade, 
A clamor of voices and a whirl of hands!) . . 
That Power I thank for life which has been 

mine; 
And now that Power, called by whatever name, 
Cried after, sought for, struggled toward, de- 
sired 

3* 



So long . . that Power I thank for seemly 

death, 
Most just, most seemly, restful, though deferred, 
Though whispered of with hushed and pallid lips 
That have so often spoken foolishly. 

"And now the cup ! Who that has lived indeed 
Would ask more space for living? . . Is not 
Death ■. , 

Seemly and just, impartial and desired, 
When at the last ye Judges name His name?" 



. . So, having said, I raised the cup on high, 
And all the rondure of its polished shell 
Gleamed, and the liquor hissed within like fire ! 
Then with a cry, I drank . . . and, with a cry, 
Leaped into life ! 



Put not your faith in dreams. 



"THE SCAB" 

A little food, a little fire 
For me and mine is my desire ; 
I am not strong like other men, 
But I must do the work of ten, 
Hated of all, that I may earn 
Shelter, and food, and fire to burn. 

Ye strike me down, I rise amain; 
Ye chain me, and I break the chain ; 
There is no power (tho' I am weak) 
Can slay me ! Nature's voice I speak, 
And Nature's lust in me will earn 
Shelter, and food, and fire to burn. 



"I HAVE FORGOTTEN TEARS' 

I have forgotten tears. Long since 

The arid courses of my life 

Are slag and cinders. If I wince, 

It is enough. The sullen strife, 

The imperturbable conceit 

Of too perturbed humanity, 

Have wrought a torpor, cold, complete, 

Within : — 'tis not through tears I see. 

I see with chill eyes undisturbed 
By passion's life-discoloring glass, 
Gold-drunken peoples custom curbed, 
Pale luxury's obscene morass ; 
Religion's fervent hands that lift 
Heavily Heavenward in gyves ; 
Art's impotence, and all the drift 
And futile stir of human lives. 



These things I see — not these alone. 

The pure, grave student I discern, 

Careless of fame — a jewelled stone 

He will not stoop to overturn ; 

I see frail women worn with pain, 

Whose eyes are gentle, helpful, sure ; 

I see Truth's shield above the slain 

Marked with one flaming word . . endure! 

Endure ! I have forgotten tears : — 

We have small time for weeping, we 

Who stumble on ere morning clears 

And the brave sun o'erleaps the sea! 

Small time for tears : — while night and storm 

Ring us with horror, down the blast 

40 



Leading our broken van, what Form 
Gleams — calls (ye hear it?) "Light . . at 
last!" 



What Form? what phantom of desire? 

What spectral promiser of good, 

111 seen through mirk as by the fire 

Of sapless, long-decaying wood? 

W T hat ancient mimicker of hope 

Whose sinister miming soothes our fears? 

Lo, now it vanishes ! — we grope 

Blindly. I have forgotten tears. 



Forgotten tears ? Ah, love, your hand — 
Your hand in mine ! I shall not quail 
This side the fabled promised land ; 
The heart you need, dear, dare not fail ! 
Your hand in mine. I had forgot 
So much . . the long gloom disappears. 
Yet, yet, ah yet if yon were not . . . 
Live, live ! I shall remember tears. 



THE DREAMERS 

We can know so very little 
Of the much there is to know; 
Human life's so very brittle, 
Human wit so very slow, 
That we dreamers deem it better 
Just to sit out in the sun, 
Undisturbed by law or letter . . 
Or the things we might have done. 



4i 



True, we might have builded bridges, 
But the castles that we build 
Please us rarely; men and midges 
Fill the world, while these are filled 
With faint presences of beauty, 
Eyed serenely, tender lipped ! 
Ah, we might have done our duty 
Ere love's opiate we sipped! 

As it is, we do no murder 
Save to fictions of the brain ; 
And we speak no angry word, nor 
Cause the living lively pain : 
We are dreamers, star desirers, 
Shadows on life's southern wall. 
Ye are doers, or admirers ! 
We are dreamers — that is all. 

Chide us — we will sleep the longer ; 
Praise us — we will sleep no less ; 
Kill us — is our sleep not stronger 
In the grave? No' bitterness 
Mars our rest. We know but little 
Of life's meaning. So we sit 
Idly, for life's term is brittle . . . 
Truth unknown that circles it. 



THE EMISSARY 

"Vanity, vanity, vanity," I said, 
"Always the world and ever vanity." 
"Why do you dull your empty eyes on me?" 
She cried, "Back to your city of the dead !" 

"But not alone," I whispered, "not alone; 
"The way is long, and I have need of you." 

42 



She laughed aloud, "Not yet, I am not through 
"With vanity!" Her laugh was like a groan. 

"The way is long," I whispered, "and the leaves 
"Bend from me as I pass, O come with me . . 
"Leave the sick world's insatiate vanity; 
"Alone with loneliness your lover grieves." 

She laughed aloud, "No lover now of mine : 
"Back to your city of the unrestful dead. 
"My love was gay, my lover's lips were red !" 
I saw upon her lips the stain of wine. 

"The way is long," I whispered, "and the stones 
"Creep from the noiseless terror of my feet ; 
"Come with me, once you found my kisses 

sweet." 
"Back, back!" she pleaded, as the night-wind 

moans. 

On my love's lips I put the kiss of death, 
Pale, pale they grew beneath the stains of wine ; 
On my love's brow I sealed a livid sign, 
And she went with me where none travaileth. 

"The way is long," she sighed, "but you are 

near; 
"The silly stones creep from our moveless feet, 
"The leaves bend from us . . ah, but life was 

sweet ! . . 
"Why does the grass sway downward as in 

fear?" 



43 



SALOME 

What dream is this of dusky arms 
Circled with cumbrous gold, what dream 
Of supple feet no sandal harms ? 
List! for the cymbals seem 
Faint in their silver clashings, thin and faint, 
And a low flute afar whispers a dreary plaint. 
Yet list! the rhythm deepens . . list! the air 
Throbs with a freer music, wild and shrill, 
And the lithe, shadowy arms weave to the 

rhythm's will, 
Tossing the clouded hair! 

Veil after veil floats from her, gossamer things 
Shot through with shimmering amethyst! Loud 

rings 
The canorous chorus . . list ! for now she sings 
Stark, ancient words of the heart's mad desire! 
Her body is a snake, or writhing tongues of fire ; 
Now a wind-smitten lily, now a pard 
Crouching in stealthy malice ! Scents of nard, 
Burnt, heavy perfumes, sandal-wood and myrrh 
Smoke from the brazen braziers, smoke and blur 
The senses of a King — her worshipper. 
The clamor muffles to a breath, the flute 
Sighs for a little . . hush ! and now is mute. 
Alas, what dream, 

What dream is this of luring, dusky arms 
Weighted with gold, what perilous, rich dream 
Of beauty that alarms 
With irrecoverable malignity! 
Ay, this is she . . 
Salome, daughter of Herodias, 
Whose bitter, terrible fame none may surpass, 
For it passes not away : 
Ay, even to-day 

44 J, , . 



Poets her name repeat! 

Nor yet forgotten are those gliding feet, 

Nor yet forgotten tho' the world be gray. 



A PRAYER TO DEATH 

The word is said, 
We cannot save her ; 
The hands that lave her 
Cleanse but the dead. 

She does not know 
The word is spoken ; 
Lest hearts be broken 
'Tis better so. 

Delay not, Death! 
Strike soon, the sorrow 
Is more to-morrow 
And tarrieth. 

Kill her to-day, 
Be kind, O slayer! 
We'd not delay her . . 
Take her away. 

We can but wait. 
If Thou let her languish 
We wait in anguish . . 
Be swift, O Fate ! 

Be swift, be sure, 
With a bright dream take her; 
Though a star-song wake her 
Our dreams endure: 



45 



Bad dreams, till Thou 
Sweep all dreams from us, 
And overcome us . . 
More kind than now. 

For she will sleep ; 
But of her forsaken 
We still must waken, 
We still must weep. 

Take her away, 
We'd not delay her; 
Be kind, O slayer . . 
Kill her to-day. 



THE TWO DEATHS 

What tawdry image of a fleshless foe 
Is this? . . thou, Death! Thy form I did not 
know 
In this vile masquerade. 
For thou art fair to those who unafraid 
Slip out of life to silence, with thy hand 
Leading them on to the inviolate strand 
Where equally the wise and foolish go. 

Appear not so 
Death, unto these ; but like a pensive boy 
With torch reverted, look into their eyes: 
That they may see what joy 
You bring, and what they lack of joy surmise. 



46 



AT THE THRESHOLD 

Blue eyes looking at the world, 

Childlike, wondering . . 
Is it but a plaything twirled 

By a golden string? 

Strange that I could tell you tales 
You would weep to hear . . 

Even now your flower face pales, 
Sensitive to fear! 

Life, you guess, is not so sweet 

As it seems to be: 
Yet with timid eager feet 

Questing wishfully, 

Questing after joy, you must 

Seek the secret clue, 
Seek it haply in the dust! 

— Will your eyes be blue ? 

Will they still be blue and fair 
When the world seems gray, 

When your heart aches for the prayer 
You have ceased to pray? 

Ay, blue as heaven seen through a rift 
Of streaming cloud ; but more 

Grave, with a more tender lift 
Toward beauty than before. 



47 



"PEACE! COUNT THE CLOCK!" 

Not yet austerely glad, nor sad, 
I count the progress of the sun : 
The clock tells one. 

I am but as a flame, the name 
Of constancy not yet my due : 
The clock tells two. 

A little while and I shall hie 

Me downward where the slow things be: 

The clock tells three. 

Forget not when I pass the grass 

Will wear such greenness known of yore : 

The clock tells four. 

Nor when I am withheld be quelled 
By tyranny of love, nor strive — 
The clock tells five. 

Only remember me as he 

Who held the truth too great to fix : 

The clock tells six. 

Too great to fix in schools, with rules 
Made rigid for a line to heaven : 
The clock tells seven. 

One who was keen as fire to tire 
The dogged presence of his fate : 
The clock tells eight. 

Yet one who knew that first man's thirst 
Is quenched with undiluted wine : 
The clock tells nine. 

48 



That when Time's fingers trace the place, 
There is no coward's refuge then : 
The clock tells ten. 

O hands inexorable to spell 

One word no mortal hope may leaven — 

To tell eleven! 

O silent hands that sleep yet creep 

The dial's round . . Strike to the helve ! 

The clock tells twelve! 



CHALLENGE ! 

If the soul of the world is good, 

If the heart of the world is pure, 
Sound to the core like seasoned wood . . 

Wise, sane, secure : — 

Then, tell me, Vapid of Soul, 

As you sip your syrupy brew, 
How came this clear sweet wine of the bowl 

To the languid lips of — You? 

How comes it that You are blest 
With a sense that what is is right, 

When the fell facts shrink from a strong man's 
test 
Like vipers curling to bite? 

If the soul of the world love You, 

Give You the wine of its joy — 
Then I pray on my knees for cummin and rue, 

Lest the stark world prove a toy ! 

The stark world weary with pain 
Has room for love, and for such 

49 



As know love best, and are fain 
To lean on love as a crutch. 

But it has scant room for the fool 

Who hears no wail of distress, 
While he dreams o'er his face in a silver'd pool 

Of mawkish happiness. 

Rather give me that man 

Who hates the world for its ill, 
Than him who can see no flaw in the plan 

From his inch-wide window sill! 



ADONIS TO APHRODITE 

Then at the border of the wood, where first 
The giant oak trees grapple with the shade 
And hold it captive, the boy Adonis turned 
And flung back words of shrill unfeigned delight : 
And in her bower she heard them . . Aphrodite 
Whom all men worship . . all save this peevish 
boy. 

Queen of the Paphian island, Aphrodite, 

It is not you I worship ! No, proud queen 

Of heavy and unrestful hours, and of 

Such men as no man reckons honorable! 

I will not willingly give praise to you 

Whiles the elusive arrowy Artemis 

Loosens her hounds and beckons down the 

glades 
And bids me follow! . . . 

I am too beautiful? . . . 
But the Gods give us beauty as they give 
Flowers to the lap of Spring . . a little while ; 
Only a little while and they depart, 

50 



And beauty lingers only a little while. 
I shun your kisses, fierce Idalian, 
Lest they scorch up the vigor of my youth 
And leave me blasted ! Shall a boy find ease 
Through languorous and insatiable ecstasies 
Of love . . or following the shadowy stag, 
With the strong-singing wind within his hair ? 
Henceforth I mock your passion ! . . and where 

the boar 
Bristles with fury in the treacherous brake, 
There shall you find me, find me pressing close 
With lithe sure limbs strung to a nobler quest 
Than subtle-soft and feverous indolence; 
Shall find me nor lure me thence, for nevermore 
Thrice beautiful Idalian, nevermore 
Shall any lure inspire me to your arms. 

And Aphrodite heard him in her bow- 
er, 

And beat her breasts, and knew what horrid 
chance 

Would meet him in the brake, and gave no sign. 



AFTERMATH 

When Greeks bear gifts, beware ! 

Ah, had I known 
The gentle perfidy of loosened hair, 

The cozenage of tone, 
I had not now been stripped of youth, and bare 

Of honor .... and alone. 

She came to me like truth, 

With open brows, 
And the bright candid lips of joyous youth. 

The jealous world allows 

51 



No unmixed joy: — she came to me, good sooth, 
To lighten all my house. 

And I was glad of her, 

And made her bower 
Most like the fane of some proud worshipper 

Who kneels to love each hour. 
I would not willingly have had her stir 

From view, lest some harsh power 

Might vex her sweet content : — 

O honest fool 
Thou couldst not carve for her a continent 

Where she alone might rule ! 
Thou couldst not bind the boisterous element, 

Nor put the winds to school. 

What didst thou strive for? She 

Gave little heed 
To thy poor gifts ; her valiant vanity 

Was of another breed. 
Thou canst not, fool, pleasure the restless sea, 

Nor plenish all its need ! 

Peace, she is vanished — peace, 

Unquiet heart. 
Slave to her beauty, shall not this release 

A nobler calm impart ? 
What though her temples bore a golden fleece, 

Late tarnished in the mart ! 

Bearer of subtle gifts : — 

Ah, had I known 
The scorpion sting of beauty, and the shifts 

Of wheedling sigh and tone, 
I had not now sung to a lute, whose rifts 

Upbraid her, . . . lost, alone. 

52 



ODE 

(Imitated from Olivier de Magny) 

Lest pleasure flee us ere we fly 

Beyond the glance of pleasure's eye, 

Friends, let us dine in frugal state, 

But let our fare be delicate. 

And with us let our chums Catullus, 

Propertius, Ovid, young Tibullus, 

Sit, as if Rome were not a shade, 

And sing us the rare songs they made. 

And let there be flowers white and red — 

Roses and lilies, friends of mine — 

And garlands for each singing head, 

And honey-hearted wine! 

To-morrow death may come and take 

The gayest of our troop, and say 

"Sweet roisterer 'tis the hour to slake 

Your thirst with darker wine . . . Away!' 



BENEATH APPLE BOUGHS 



Cool green and paling blue, 

Leaves patterned on the sky, 
Blossoms in pomp of May, 

Stirred as a breeze sifts through 
Stealing their souls away. 

Now one by one they fly . . 

Blossom or butterfly? . . 

Showering me as I lie, • 
A nympholept of the day. 



53 



The sloping orchard leads 
Down to the valley fields ; 

Far hills are faint in the haze 
Of languid light. As I gaze 
The vision wavers and yields 

To a flitting dream, 
And I seem to hear 

A ripple of voices or else a stream 
That bubbles near. 

Then I wake and study the weeds 
A foot from my nose ; 
Then I doze 

And the ripple of dream succeeds. 



Bees are busy above me, 

Droning with sleepy toil ; 
From blossom to blossom, from tree to tree 

They slant: 
At my ear a fidgety ant 

Tickles his way till I suddenly foil 
His explorations ; the sun like oil, 
Clear as amber, drips from the leaves. 
A riotous bobolink deceives 
With a glory of song, as though a dozen 
Warbled together, cousin and cousin ! 



Cool green and paling blue, 
Blossoms in pomp of May, 

Slow sunlight drizzling through 
Dreaming the noon away 

I smile to the patterned sky; 

Blossom — or butterfly ? — 

54 



Showering- me as I lie 

With languid vision that yields to a dream 

Of liquid voices and laughing stream. 



To-day I have taken ease — 

All the antient liberties — 

With my brothers the apple-trees ! 

I have felt their sap in my veins ; 
My thoughts like blossoms have been 
Lucidly fair — without sin. 
I go home with the evening breeze, 

But the calm of noon remains. 

IN THE SILENCE 

Here at the hill-top . . rest . . tranquillity. 

Hush ; do not move ; draw deep 

This breath of freedom, which is never free, 

Because we may not keep 

The pureness and the silence and the calm, 

The soul-anointing balm 

Like to a waking sleep. 

O, hush ; speak low . . 

Linger a moment ere you rise to go. 

This moment that is yours, this waif of rest 
Quieting now your breast, 
Think that it will not follow as you pass 
Down to the populous places from the grass 
Of this fair slope ; 
The ever-narrowing scope 

Of your calm vision must narrow too this sense 
Of world-pervading peace, immutable, im- 
mense . . 
This harvest-tide of hope. 

55 



O, hush ; a little longer . . nay, the dream 

Mirrored an instant on the moving stream 

Of circumstance, 

Who shall withhold, restrain? 

The unsummoned chance 

Who shall recall again? 



THE OLD POET TO HIS SOUL'S 
FRIEND 

You, my friend, know that Love alone is wise; 
Gladly, O gladly would I place my hand 
In yours and feel again the firm caress 
Of friendship ; gladly would I know your eyes ■ 
As once I knew them ; gladly from the stress, 
The stubborn urge of pitiless circumstance, 
Would I win free to meet you where you stand 
Apart, and share once more the comfort of 
your glance. 

I may not, though I would. Therefore these lines 
Must greet you as my presence. May they seem 
At least to speak of me as one who kept 
In memory always youth's too frail designs ; 
Though now age finds me guilty, an adept 
Dealing in trickery, in lies . . . Ah, yet 
Believe me as I was., believe our dream 

Come true, and (dreaming thus) what I have 
been — forget ! 



<6 



THE POET 

The poet's lips are eloquent not long, 
But once or twice he stirs our secret tears, 
But once or twice lends courage to the strong, 
Strength to the weak . . then lightly disap- 
pears ; 
Leaving some little stave of valiant song 
To win slow recognition down the years. 



A POET'S PRAYER 

Three gifts, Apollo, grant to me, 

That from the soul's locked harmony 

Free song may issue silverly: 

An ear to hear, an eye to see, 

A still unclouded memory. 

So shall my watch-light ever be 

Sincere, supreme lucidity. 



A DECADENT POET 

He plays with words like a voluptuary, 

But cares no whit for noble thought or deed; 

His only care to trace shy moods that vary 

A life made barren by a hopeless creed. 

The decent veil of health has fallen long since 

From his tired soul's too shameless eidolon ; 

Naked it stands, but we who view it wince, 

So. piteous is the shape to look upon . . . 

Pallid, inert, stripped of all dignity, 

The wan cheeks furrowed by unmanly tears. 

Thus does he carve his soul for all to see ; 

Lifelessly lives ; dies — leaving to the years 

A chill excrescence of funereal verse, 

Like the soiled plumes upon a pauper's hearse. 

57 



AVE 

Carducci, hail ! Hail, pagan poet ! None 
Has better loved the laughter of the sun, 
Has better loved the earth's abundant breast, 
Whereon the opulent summers sink to rest 
Reluctantly, one after one, and thence 
Draw the rich fountains of their opulence ! 
Your nature is like summer, ample, free 
(Hail singer of the heart of Italy!) 
From winter's chill secretive sophistry; 
Winter, who frights us for a little space 
By drawing death's white veil before his face, 
Who thwarts the sun with shadow . . . You 

are not one 
To fret with vapors the impetuous sun ! 
Life, life's abundance, these you still proclaim : 
And life seems lordlier when we name your 

name! 



INSIGHT 

My friend? . . You thought him ever gay, 
Radiant, amenable to joy, 

An ageless boy, 
One who would laugh lest laughter die? 
Then you misdeemed him even as I 
Misdeemed, who thought him ever gay — 

Till, once, our eyes met! In his eyes 
Smouldered a passion that was pain; 

And once again 
Mirth faltered while the back-log burned . 
I turned to look at him, I turned 
And the old pain was in his eyes. 



58 



THE DEAF POET TO HIS MISTRESS 

I watch your hands move o'er the keys 
Each firm lithe finger equal to your will ; 
And O, my very soul is slave to these, 
Slave to a music time shall never kill. 

I watch your lips part gently then, 
And in my soul I feel an answering tune ; 
So may some blind sea-farer tremble when 
Across his sentient eyelids creeps the moon. 



TO MY MISTRESS . . POESY 

Just by the sidelong flicker of her eyes 

I knew her false, yet how might I withstand, — 

Where other men had yielded, brave and wise, — 
The pressure of her hand? 

Nay, by the palor of her lips I knew 

Her doubly false, in that she loved me not ; 

But when her lips slow murmured "I am true," 
Their warning I forgot. 

And now that she has used me as a slave, 
Bending my willing service to her will, 

As other men have served her, wise and brave, 
Know that I serve her still. 



LOVE AND THE POET 

A maiden loved him, wooed him with her eyes ; 
He felt their limpid blueness like a dream, 
So rhymed of love with a divine surprise ! 
Love (not the blue-eyed maiden) was his theme. 

59 



"O luring lips!" he sang, who knew them not; 
"O burning kisses!" But his soul was strong, 
Silent, aloof, a sentinel of thought, 
Dwelling a hermit on the heights of song. 



THE NE'ER-DO-WELL 

Behold him sitting idly ! One nerveless hand 
Dimples the quivering pool ; the netted leaves 
Weave intricate shadow-magic in the sun — 
Fluttering adumbrations, flickering artistry, 
Flecking his upturned face with luminous shade. 
Behold him sitting idly: but far away 
Faint, cloudy summits mystically allure — 
Another world, they seem, another star. 
And it may be that even now with wings 
Of morning radiance he is there, snow-plumed, 
Sun-glorified, a free-born of those peaks 
Minting the golden silence into song ! 

. . . Behold him sitting idly ; one languid hand 
Circles with amethyst the tremulous pool. 



FOR ONE SINGING 

The faultless oval of your face, 
The plaintive beauty of your eyes, 
Within whose sad appeal I trace 

Passion that sleeps — not dies . . . 

These move me, these! O lips too pure 
For passion, may your song express 
Only unrest a song will cure — 
Lest love prove pitiless. 



60 



WORD WEARINESS. 

We men who juggle with our wits find words 
Wondrous to wordless men : we phrase all moods, 
Easing the world through utterance of its pain, 
Its hope, its large forbearance ; we are tongues 
Given to conscience, we unpack the heart 
Of its dull measureless freightage of despair, 
Or if love rules it gloriously we chant 
Paeans of gladness ! We are voices, pipes, 
Instruments sighed upon by time and chance — 
From age to age articulate messengers. 
All this we are, quickened by Destiny — 
And much we are not ! For the loves we sing 
Warm us not ; for the wisdom that we speak 
Makes us not wise; for all the radiant dreams 
We weave are lustreless in our sight! . . 

Words, words, 
Words only pleasure us, and our pulses chime 
Only word-music, and our hearts beat out 
Passionate — words! 

We are sick of saying! God, were we dumb, who 

knows 
What solace of tacit feeling might be ours, 
What silent homeliness and unlettered peace ! 

BATTERY PARK 

Even from Wall Street one may see 
The hopeful spire of Trinity ; 
And frowning Broadway holds between 
Its jaws the fruit of Bowling Green — 
A toothsome apple 'tis, I ween! 
But pass beyond, a Park invites 
To a brief Eden of delights, 
Where up a noble bay the sea 

61 



Sweeps to the rounded Battery. 

. . Now who may loiter here with me 
Shall steal an hour right pleasantly! 
All troubles here seem far away, 
And to-day like yesterday. 



Spacious ? no : nor over shady ; 
Here the trim "type-writer lady" 
Walks at noon this May-time weather 
Sometimes three or four together, 
Arm in arm ; and here the clerk 
Smokes away his morning's work, 
Staring with incurious eyes 
Down the bay ; and here one buys 
"Extras," loafing for a "shine," 
With the sun for anodyne. 
Troubles here seem far away, 
And to-day like yesterday. 



All the benches fill at noon, 
Offering to all the boon 
Of a restful snooze : — one sees 
Stolid vagrants take their ease 
With the golden sun, or trees 
Yielding scanty shade. The Pole 
Here invites his lonesome soul ; 
Swarthy men of Sicily 
Hold this little Park in fee; 
Greek, Norwegian, Irish — all 
Elbow here; the squat, the tall, 
Spruce or ragged, sick or well, 
Drinking deep the fresh, keen smell 
From the boon, inflooding sea. 
Here at least a man is free 
To delay his destiny. 

62 



Out along the bay the. ships 

Slowly pass, while nearer slips 

Snorting tug or ferry by. 

Many pastimes lure the eye : — 

Yacht and lighter, sail and spar, 

Argosies from Malabar, 

Rio, Corfu, Halifax — 

With their salt-incrusted stacks, 

Where the spume of angrier seas 

Smote them : from the Hebrides 

Came those whitey smudges, or 

From the coast of Labrador. 

Then across the bay you spy land, 

The low hills of Staten Island 

Blue with haze ; but first you see 

The towering torch of Liberty, 

With tiny vessels at its base. 

Such sights as these have spells to chase 

The blackest spectres care can raise. 



Faces, faces, pass and pass : 
Some as if a knotted glass 
Had distorted them, and some 
Fixed, expressionless and dumb: 
Others smiling, here and there 
One to make each gazer stare 
For its beauty ; fewer still 
Carved for conquest, power and will 
Lining them; but seldom one 
Imaging beneath the sun 
Any soul-abiding peace. 
Faces, faces — let them cease, 
Lest the sad incessant stir 



63 



Weary out the loiterer : — 
Close your eyes for better ease, 
Let them cease. 



Lethal Park, my verses tell 
Little of your May-time spell, 
Little of your varied sights, 
Little of the odd delights 
That you offer every day ; 
Shameless, loafing where Broadway 
Cuts between the soaring walls, 
And the roar of business falls 
Heavily on ears of lead : 
Little have my verses said 
Of your gracious "drowsyhed." 
Verily none other seems 
Dedicated so to dreams ; 
In no other Park are found 
Age-long idlers in profound 
Somnolescence, breathing clay 
Basking in the tide of May, 
Mute, oblivious of sound. 

6 

Basking in the tide of May, 
Trouble here seems far away . . . 
And to-day like yesterday. 



64 



ZANY-WHILES 

There's a mad play-house in New York, its name 

Is nothing to my purpose : one sees within 

A host of quaint unmannered rogueries, 

Clowning in colors, and siren women, too, 

With bright abbreviations of their dress. 

Add to the galimaufry a merry din 

Of thoughtless blatant music, that when all's 

over 
Fidgets on nimbly through the mind's unrest, 
Till the slow heels go dancing ! Odd zany-whiles 
I like to wander in an hour or two 
And play at make-believe ; forget that life 
Moves onward with a large reality, 
While my freed senses take their fill of folly, 
Frisking at topsy-turvy-tickle-toes 
Down the whole gamut of inanities ! 
Of course it's vulgar; but I never feel 
Degraded — only gayer, more fantastic, 
After an evening with these Fanfreluches. 

The program told me nothing; some tawdry 

name 
There was, of -flower and jewel (Beryl Rose) 
Such as these stage-girls wear for baser tinsel : 
Plain Irish Maggie, as I guessed, her eyes, 
Soft meaningless Irish eyes of violet-grey, 
Dusky and wonderful. Strange how a face, 
Chance seen, will set one dreaming! 

Without, Broadway 
Screams like a slave crushed by the chariot- 
wheels 

Of Time . . . Your pardon, sir ! 

Can this be life? . . 
This! 

65 



LINES FOR A ROUMANIAN AIR 

That you are fond of me is a bitter thing : 

The hours of my life are numbered, the hours 

take wing; 
They sweep on invisible plumes to the gulf of 

the past . . 
I could love your love if they did not vanish so 

fast ! 

Life is too brief to love in, I must have room 

For love — and there is no spaciousness in the 
tomb ; 

We must lie alone shut in with earth on our 
eyes . . 

But our souls, you whisper, shall mingle in Para- 
dise! 



A NAMELESS EPITAPH 

One lies here men did not praise, 
One who counted many days: 
Pray that death may set him free 
From labor's long monotony. 

Pray that death no bond may keep 
On his ranging soul — save sleep ; 
If death be sleep, pray that it be 
A passionless monotony. 

Unsatisfied desire lies hid 
Within this tomb: a pyramid 
Were fitter monument to cover 
Life's truest — life's rejected lover! 



66 



LINES FOR A LITTLE DRAWING 

(Outlined on the fly-leaf of a "New York Code 
of Civil Procedure" ) 

Fair face, most like the petals of a rose, 
I place you here to lighten this grim book 
With the enchantment of a morning look. 
The Beauty that abides may you disclose 
To some poor lawyer's clerk some future day . . 
But tempt him not ! or he will pine away, 
Seeking you, seeking you, where that River flows 
(To which the Stream of Life is but a brook) 
Whose Source is nowhere, and whose Sea none 
knows. 



AUDAX 

Three things I know, endure ! 

The uplift of a woman's patient love; 

The undefeated Source . . 

And eloquent brief verses, such as these. 



"ANTILHA" 

( . . . probably a compound Portuguese 
zvord meaning "opposite island," or "island in 
the distance" and denoting any land expected to 
be descried on the horizon.) 

The Cambridge Modern History. 

From their caravals they sought it, 
The dark-browed Portuguese, 

And the sure Time-spirit wrought it 
Out across the timeless seas . . . 

67 



"Antilha," set before them in the West beyond 

the verge 
Of the undiscerned horizon and the isle-forsaken 

surge ! 

Brutal men they were, these sailors, 
But they greatly dared for this: 
If the hull split, what avail oars ? 
Find — or perish if you miss 
"Antilha!" where the stars go, dim beyond the 

beckoning wave : — 
They were cruel, these sea-rovers, they were 
crafty . . they were brave ! 

That which lies beyond for ever 

Who knows when we shall find, 
Pushing our superb endeavor 
Down the pathless seas of mind? 
"Antilha" . . . blind before us in the West be- 
yond the verge 
Of the undiscerned horizon and the isle-forsaken 
surge ! 



IRRECOVERABLE 

There is one rapture lost from out the earth, 
Gone with the golden-wombed argosies ; 
Nor shall the ages grant this joy rebirth . . . 
To cleave the sun's path o'er uncharted seas! 



68 



APERTO VIVERE VOTO 

Gods ! give me these : 

A friend to love, 
A mistress to be worthy of ; 
Three or four books of stalwart verse, 

Austere and terse ; 
Sufficient food to mend my body, 
A pipe, a fuming glass of toddy! 

Gods ! give me these, and I will write 
An "Ode To Duty" every night. 



MATINS 

I give thanks for the light of day 
And the life of the errant hour ; 
For a heart unshamed, I pray, — 

For a gift of power ! 
Power to suffer at need 
Silently, as is best; 
And power to breathe with a zest 
('Tis the songless road is long !) 
An untamed rapture of song 
Through the rifts of a broken reed. 



THE DEBUTANTE 

A New York Idyl 

Her name's not Amaryllis, though she seems 
To shepherd with her eyes a flock of dreams : 
And yet, it may be, when their tale is told 
(Poor sheep, poor silly dream-sheep pastured far 
Along faint hills lit by a maiden star!) 
She will desert them for the Fleece of Gold. 

69 



LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE 

Felise, we two, we two and the wide world: 

The gusty pleasures of God's cruel sea ; 

The stainless peaks, silent; the stainless stars, 

Silent; the rush of winds o'er barren moors, 

Night voices, fen fires, or the lithe unrest 

Of stripling cities in unconquered lands ; 

Or the slow hush of a decaying race 

Mured in with the strait walls of yesterday . . . 

Felise, we two, we two and the wide world ! 

Was it not Venice lured us on to love ? 
Venice, yet dreaming her voluptuous dream, 
Prodigal Venice who poured out her gold, 
Her pearls — and last her tears. And we twain 

wept 
For Venice fallen, beautiful Venice fallen, 
Wept and were comforted . . A touch did all. 

Harsh Norway taught us terrors, and our love 
Was greater for this awe ; trim England gave 
Her summer hedgerows and wide peacocked 

lawns, 
Made smooth for feet of noble women dead, 
Long dead, where ivied towers rebuke the sun. 
England gave peace, and love has need of peace. 

America gave power, and love has need 
Of power ! Home country, home ! We welcom- 
ed thee, 
Felt in our pulses the titanic swirl 
Of deep, undisciplined forces, felt the sob 
Wrung from a nation's effort, felt the uplift, 
The towering uplift of thy wrestling wings ! 
With thee our love wrought greatly and was glad. 

70 



The fronded islands of Pacific seas 

Lured us to pensive languors ; there our love 

Ate of the ancient lotos ; we forgot 

Time and our homes and the impatient urge 

Of labor. There we dreamed such delicate 

dreams 
As only flutter forth beneath far palms, 
Beneath slow moons, where the white coral glim- 
mers, 
A floor of alabaster, and where the night 
Sighs to itself for weariest ecstasy. 
Ah, love has need of dreams — such dreams as 
these ! 

Felise, we two, we two and the wide world: 
Have we not shared the spume of forceful seas, 
Shared the still peaks, the crisp, metallic stars ; 
Shared ribald winds howling along low wastes, 
And melancholy treacherous wildernesses; 
Shared, too, night's voices and her quivering 

fires; 
Shared the street-glare of cities In young lands ; 
Shared the sad echoes of dispeopled towns, 
Where the hushed plaint is answered by a moan 
From shattered hearts and lips invisible : 
Have we not shared in all? Our love has need, 
Yea, need of all things . . thus! . . your hand 

in mine . . . 

Felise, we two, we two and the wide zuorld. 



71 



HOME 

The Universe is vague, is incomplete ; 
A waiting void, a loneliness half stirred 
To life and fellowship; its pulses beat 
Blind rhythms long deferred. 

But here, beloved, hid in this sheltered star 
We can shut out the inane titanic Whole . . . 
Cheek pressed to cheek, what matters it how far 
Lost waves through aether roll? 

Hand clasped in hand, what matters it that Time 

Dooms us with rapt inexorable face, 

That when our lips have crumbled, this poor 

rhyme 
The impassioned lips may grace 

Of later, lordlier lovers? . . Hush! To-night 
Our hearts lie close; we have woven a nest to 

keep 
The blank eyes of the barren vault from sight, 
And the moon's frozen sleep. 



DEFENCELESS 

Last night your fingers touched my hair, your 

cheek 
Drew near, how near to mine! We dared not 

speak, 
Dreaming that love and silence were one bond, 
One guard round us for ever, that beyond 
The circle of our passionate stillness, death 
Wrought largely! . . . O brittle love, death's 

lightest breath 
Were stronger than our silence, stronger far 

72 



Than the frail bastions of sad lovers are! 

No shield have we from chance and change, no 

fence 
From the sly malice of impermanence. 
Last night your kisses drowsed all love's alarms ; 
To-night, / fear — an exile from your arms ! 
Unspeakably I fear, lest fate devise 
Some secret pall to shroud you from my eyes, 
To wrap you from me even in death, to take 
All things save silence and love's silent ache. 

WAITING 

But now she dallied by me, arm in arm 
With some chance, chin-receded worshipper. 
Why is it that I hold my faith in her, 
And know among the harmful she takes no 

harm? 
The ball-room flares with light, no luring charm 
Numbers me one amid the incessant stir 
Of grinning faces, faces which pass and blur 
In the intricate dance. Yet feel I no alarm. 

She loves me, that is all I care to know. 
She loves me, in the dance her thoughts are mine, 
Even in the dance. Youth craves felicity 
Moving within the music's rhythmic flow ; 
But O more joy beats in the pulse of me 
Than in the music's passionate anodyne! 

MID-PASSION 

Sweetheart, the love I bear you is not love 
Of one unvarying loveliness : your eyes 
Are lovelier that the pools of Paradise, 
Clear dark unfathomable pools whereof 
The praise of angels were not praise enough; 

73 



And through your loosened hair enchantment lies 
Golden, a lure; and when you speak hate dies 
Within ungentle hearts. Your pulseless glove 
Shakes me; the scarce heard patter of your feet 
Attunes the monotonous rumble of the street ; 
The breathing of a rose upon your breast 
Drugs me to faintness! Ah, even the memory 
Of your rich smile renews the god in me, 
Making love's immanent godhead manifest ! 

A LAST PLEA 

Dear, if I lose you I shall lose the hope 

New risen that valorous manhood may be mine ; 

I shall not seek excess for anodyne, 

Nor to unclean Cimmerian caverns grope — 

Caverns of chill dejection. But the scope, 

The vision you have found me, the divine 

Soul-draught of inspiration's crystalline, 

The will to dare immortally, to cope 

With the whole pressure of a leaden fate, 

To cope and conquer! . . . Ah, losing you I 

lose 
This, where faint life creeps to a shadowy plain. 
I shall not know henceforward joy or pain; 
I shall not love mine enemy — nor hate ; 
Death I'll not summon (trust me) — nor refuse. 

INVOCATION 

Let us be strong in joy, O love ! I am sick 
Of sadness ! Let us spurn this nether star 
Back to the void it spawned from ! O love, be 

quick, 
Wing with me far from sorrow, O very far 
From faces seamed with sorrow as with a scar, 
From grievous spirits walled in upon by brick, 

74 



Who cling to life as castaways to a spar, 
Or as a spark clings to a stifled wick. 

O love, let us be strong, let us be strong, 
Let not joy flee before us unendingly ; 
We have been slaves — let us, O love, be free 
And make life lovelier with unfettered song ! 
My sadness, love, shall spire to ecstasy . . . 
Be swift, shy wings — O tarry not too long ! 

GIFTS, 

You give me beauty, wit, a trustful heart ; 

Ah, what have I to give? 
Frayed vagrant-trappings fingered in the mart . . 
A sorry counterpart ! 
You bid me live. 
Saying you love me. Why? . . I dare not ask. 

My life is yours. O, make 
Me worthier, Love, for this supremest task . . 
To live those gifts I take. 



WINTER EVENING — CENTRAL PARK 

The pillared elms are black against the sky, 
Save where in crotch and knotted bark the snow 
Clings ; as I turn, a meadow's stainless flow 
Of lilac-tempered white sweeps on the eye 
To a blurred wreath of shadow-trees, and high 
Above jut craggy, piles and cut the glow 
(How faint!) with bleakest menace . . . ah, 

even so 
May giant griefs enround us when we die. 

Along the measured Mall in formal row 
Sharp lights glint greenly ; hurried passers-by 

75 



Pad with a cat-like silence down the grove ; 
The walks are masked and muted. Singly I 
Turn westward, telling over ere they go — 
Pale saffron, palest primrose, melting mauve . . 



ISOLATION 

Thus it is, ever thus ; we climb and climb, 
Breasting the painful way ; our lagging feet 
Bleed on the cutting slag, yet life seems sweet 
There, on blue peaks, hung far aloft, sublime. 
And many strive beside us for a time, 
Spurring to emulation, and we meet 
Some fallen, and some whose eyes confess defeat, 
And some whose eyes tell luridly of crime. 

Why count vain years, few, many? The lower 

slopes 
Are timely lost ; brave things the stars can teach 
Us who have neared them ; from our mountain 

throne 
We scan the Universe with chastened hopes. 
The little are not lonely, thought must reach 
Rare altitudes to know itself alone. 



EPICURUS, HIS GARDEN 

Ternissa and Leontion, well loved friends, 
Here in my quiet garden where cypress trees 
Yield muted, delicate music to the breeze, 
Here in sequestered peace my wisdom ends. 
I have no more to give you ; he who sends 
A strident voice continually to God 
Can ask no more ; surely none love the rod 
Of .torturing desire, calm thought transcends. 

76 



The State needs selfless service? Nay, the 

State 
Exists for man; shall man be slave to it? 
Philosophy, my friends, forbids no youth 
Due service, but if service mar youth's wit 
Through strife, disease, distraction, loss of truth, 
My garden offers peace . . . perhaps too late. 

THALES 

Out of the veiled, inviolate South he brings 
New doctrine, Thales, the wise Ionian: 
"Water is first and shall be last, no man 
Lacking it lives ; mark how the Sea enrings 
The world, how from the wind's impetuous wings 
Sweet, far-flung rain freshens a sterile earth! 
Womb of the stars and sun, it shapes for birth 
The intricate seeming of terrestrial things." 

So in the dusk of Europe Thales seeks 
The Ultimate, the One ; swart Egypt gives 
The Nile to him, her God, Unfolder of Grain. 
Brave, seeking Thales . . hail ! While from 

the Peaks, 
Obscure, we view thee loftily, sans stain 
Truth slides like water through our shallow 

sieves. 

"THE LAST TOKEN" 

(For a picture by Gabriel Max.) 

Robed in pure white for sacrifice she stands 
Mute, by the bleak grey wall, a child in years, 
In purity a child; little she fears 
Death, little loves the remnant of life's sands. 
Her eyes glow inward with pure vision, no bands 

77 



Fetter the innocent spirit ; with worshipping ears 
She hearkens, and a faint new music she hears 
Stirs in her prayer ... she prays with wor- 
shipping hands. 

Crept to her feet a tiger slavers and fawns 
Stung not to hasty carnage ; unseen her foes 
Peer down from echoing heights on her: she 

smiles, 
Humanly now, snatched from immaculate isles, 
As for an instant on her sight Love dawns 
Fluttering the fallen tribute of a rose. 



THE DELPHIC SYBIL 

(Michelangelo) 

Thine eyes ! they see not. If Thou look'st aside 
Tis that a Thought hath wrenched Thee from 

the scroll, 
Tis that an Intuition smites thy soul 
Even through the armor of its ancient pride. 
Mortal Thou art not, else Thou must have died 
When the Thought stabbed ; but thine unmatched 

control, 
Thy quenchless calm yet gird Thee, as the cowl 
Girdles thy brows. Being mortal Thou hadst 

cried, 
Cried vehemently in pain — hadst fallen ! But 

Thou . . 
Thine eyes are veiled and sad; thy lips express 
The Olympian counterpart of wistfulness : 
For the Thought chains Thee, tho' it cannot bow 
The twilight splendor of thy mournful brow, 
Nor, tho' it torture, make thy beauty less. 

78 



GIORGIONE TO HIS MISTRESS 

My brothers praise you with their brushes ; I 
Would filch no molten metal from your hair, 
To dull on leaden canvas . . . none deny 
Your radiance ! You are manifestly fair 
In the sight of all men, gracious in all turns 
Of supple womanhood, complete in all 
Mysterious harmonies art's eye discerns, 
Whose service unto you's perpetual! 
I would not limn your beauty — yet the sea 
Yearns to the moon and images its love — 
But I would hymn your heart's brave fealty 
To one unworthy the least throb thereof: 
I would proclaim your steadfastness . . . not 

show 
The shadow of a splendor all men know! 

LOOKING FORWARD 

Let us suppose, dear heart, the vagrant years 
Have filched youth from us, and the promises 
Of youth; let us look forward, you and I, 
To that hour (not too distant) when our hands 
Must part, our eyes must sever images 
So long, so mutually inwrought . . ah, then, 
Best, lovingest, what message shall our hearts 
Speak out of silence to the God of Love? 

I dare not answer who have dared to ask. 

CYPSELUS 

In Corinth once men feared the God, and heard 
With ears of reverent faith the Pythian word. 
And thus the God : "Lo, ye who rule, beware ! 
Lest evil follow evil, and the fair 

79 



City of Corinth fall a tyrant's prey. 
For know ye not Eetion? Even to-day 
Homeward he leads the dove-eyed Labda, one 
Whom Corinth fears not . . yet shall fear her 

son." 
And they who ruled, being wise, interpreted 
The Oracle: "Shall Corinth fear the dead?" 

A twelvemonth passed. To Eetion's hearth there 

came 
Welcomed, a stranger, Cypselus by name — 
First born of Labda. Beautiful was the child, 
And when the gentle Labda smiled, it smiled 
Vacantly as a baby will ; no less 
Dumb smiles repay a mother's tenderness. 
But proud Eetion told the thing abroad, 
And the wise Rulers marked the thing ; they nod 
One to another. Too soon the hour is set. 

Ah meek-eyed Labda, in how cruel a net 
Art thou imprisoned, witless of all ill ! 

The house of Eetion stood beneath a hill 
Some furlongs from the city gates. Each day 
Up to the clamorous mart he took his way, 
Leaving sweet Labda and her late-born son 
Alone ; — not lonely, for lustral waters run 
Close to the cottage door, and olive trees 
Silver the neighboring hill-sides, and the bees 
Hum at their honeyed toil a song of plenteous 
peace. 

But those who rule must seek the general good : 
The God had spoken . . . 

When the Rulers stood 
In gentle Labda's presence, one who knew 
And dreaded the black deed he had to do, 
Spoke softly in this fashion : "Lo, we come 

80 



Even thus far, for Rumor is not dumb, 

To see thy little Cypselus ; men say 

So goodly a man-child hath not graced the day 

Since the old age of Heroes!" Labda smiled, 

Rich in contentment, and took up the child 

From out the cradle where it lay asleep. 

Then the stern Rulers let compassion leap 
Into their breasts, and he who first had spoke 
Took from its mother's arms the babe, that woke 
Wondering, sleepy-eyed, all unafraid. 
But the ten Rulers trembled, sore dismayed 
To think so lovely a man-child must be slain; 
Nor could they see in him proud Corinth's bane, 
Being so small and tender. And he who first 
Held in his arms the baby, clucked and nursed 
The tiny fellow . . he who had thought to slay 
A fated tyrant, dashing its brains away 
On the stone lintels of Eetion's door ! . . 
And happy Cypselus smiled. Too hard before 
Had seemed the needful slaughter; now at last 
The purpose failed. From arm to arm slow pass- 
ed 
Cypselus the babe, still smiling, down the line 
Of dim-eyed Rulers ; nor did any sign, 
Thunder or flight of birds, recall the doom. 

But when the aged Rulers left the room, 
Then dove-eyed Labda placed young Cypselus 
In the deep cradle, and an ominous 
Dread smote upon her, and she wept, nor knew 
What devious paths the hooded Fates pursue 
Lest man outwit them and their puissance fail. 

Safe in the cradle slept proud Corinth's bale, 
The tyrant Cypselus ! . . an innocent child 
Who dreamed not death forsook him when he 
smiled. 

81 



FRAGMENT OF AN "ELECTRA" 

Electra 

The curse destroys too slowly. Lo, the Gods 
Couch on Olympus and forget. 

Chorus 

The Gods 
Forget not when forgotten. Have a care ! 

Electra 

They sleep. I fear them not. Too long I feared 
Their somnolent puissance. Now I know 
My father's death is naught to the high Gods. 

Chorus 

Speak warily, O maiden ! All too fast 

Fly the flame-winged messengers of the Gods. 

Electra 

Ay, let them flash to the dull ear of Zeus 
That the too-long-awaited vengeance fall ! 
Tho' I too perish, sweet would be that doom. 

Chorus 
Rashly the word is spoken . . 

Electra 

Nor unsaid! 
I am no mocker of the most high Gods, 
Who feel their pitiless mockery. Shall I fear 
Death, who desire death only? Death for her 

82 



Whose axe smote out my father's strength, ay 

death, 
Death for him also for whose sake he died, 
Aegisthus ! Death ! Ay, and for me this boon ! 

Chorus 
These words are madness ! 

Electra 

Like the Pythian word 
Hot from the depth of nature's wounded heart! 
Not lightly spoken from false or prattling lips. 
I speak the thing I feel; I speak but when 
I must — brief speech ! Full soon in many words 
The soft lie nestles blindly . . . 

Chorus 

Ay yet, ah yet 
Thy words like adders fall upon thy bosom 
And sting thee only. Let silence strangle them. 

Electra 

Thus, then, with patient servitude ye bid 
Me wear my days out, sad, unhusbanded, 
Uncomforted of children! 

Yet he comes, 
The dream proclaims his coming! He, my 

brother, 
Exiled from out my care ! Orestes comes, 
And with his coming, lo, the day of anguish 
For impious lust and unrepented murder! 

83 



They sleep, the high Gods sleep . . but in my 

dream 
Orestes came — smote! and the wrathless Gods 
Stirred in their pleasant slumbers and awoke, 
And snuffed the sacrificial blood, and knew 
The relentless doom accomplished while they 

slept ! 

Chorus 
Yet no dream comes unsent of the high Gods. 



NECESSITY 

"Stronger than will or flesh is necessity" 

— Ellen Glasgow 

If beauty pass — is beauty less ? 
Does love, tho' brief, lack loveliness? 
Who could endure a fixed caress ? 
Peace ! take thy moments, nor repine . . . 
As I take mine. 

The strong man falls a prey to sly disease, 
Sad mothers seek lost babies on their knees, 
The winter hardens and the foodless freeze : — 
Yet summer somewhere sings amid her trees, 

And somewhere life is ease. 
Peace fool! thou canst not change it! Pay thy 
fees 

To One who holds the keys. 

Lips are red a little while, 
What more fleet than frown or smile? 
Wilt thou rail for what is lost, 
Take the pleasure — curse the cost? 

84 



'Tis true that fairest cheeks must fall, 
Tis true none see beyond the wall 
Death builds with tireless hands : — 
But the wise soul withstands 
Despair's inveterate call. 
The wise soul faints not tho' in straightening 
bands . . . 
These things are as they must be — that is all. 

FAITH 

Faith was a block of marble, formless, white, 
Till wrought by nations to the idol — Truth ; 
And each succeeding nation claims the right 
To chip the splendid image without ruth : 
Thus, day by day, scarred by the hopes and fears 
Of man, the idol scales and disappears. 
Faith flakes to dust; but Truth, whose image 

falls, 
Needs neither eidolons nor pedestals. 



ST. BERNARD'S PRAYER TO THE 
VIRGIN 

(Paradiso XXXIII) 

Virgin and mother, daughter of thine own son, 
Both low and high passing all creature else; 
Fixed goal of the Eternal, faultless one 
In whom our human nature so excells 
Itself, He scorned not, He who fashioned it, 
To be so fashioned, in Whom all Nature dwells. 
In thy pure womb that love again was lit 
Whose warmth in lasting peace evolved this 

flower. 
Here unto us thy noonday grace no whit 

85 



Is lessened, while below a living shower 

Of hope thou flowest to mortals. Lady, thou art 

So great and of so infinite a power 

That whoso seeketh grace, from thee apart, 

Would fly disdaining wings. Thy gentle care 

Aideth who asks not solely, but doth start 

Oftentimes freely forth forerunning prayer. 

In thee is pity, in thee is tenderness, 

Heaven's majesty in thee, and thou dost wear 

Singly the rose of the world's righteousness ! 

LANDORIAN 

Classic Aspasia ! When the messenger 

Turned swiftly and departed, leaving thus 

A letter from thy Pericles — the last ; 

Came there no ecstasy, no cry of pain, 

N'o beating of the breast, nor on those brows 

The signature of unexampled woe? 

The Gods are reticent — and thou. Perchance 

For one brief, shuddering instant then thou 

knewest 
What thy loved poets meant who sang of love. 
Perchance in that brief space their words seemed 

less 
Than one brief sigh, than one pellucid tear. 

LINES 

After Reading "The Pentameron " 

O breath of something from beyond these hills, 
Some higher heaven whence the essential sweet- 
ness 
Comes down to us imperfectly in gusts, 
Striking a faintness of pure ecstasy 
Through the minutest fibres of our beings ! 

86 



Such breaths come seldom to the innocent, 

How seldom to the worldly ! and, alas. 

There are who have not known them, nor shall 

know. 
To me one full intoxicating pang", 
Whereat my spirit cried out for painful bliss, 
Thou hast sent down to me, O Landor, one 
For which I thank thee not in words but tears ! 
For when I read Boccaccio's dream of her, 
Mary of Sicily, I seemed to grow 
Boccaccio's self, to see her in my dream, 
The golden Fiammetta, pliant, serene, 
Bearing the equal crystal, and to hear 
Her voice awakening slumberous memories 
Of youth unsatisfied, till at the last 
She leaned to kiss my brow, and her bright hair 
Brushed on my cheek . . and she was gone. O 

Landor, 
Whence came this breath from whitherward, for 

now 
I rest as one who has been close to Love, 
Only to see the pallid plumes of Peace 
Depart, and (turning) find Love too has fled. 

NOCTURNE 

Here is no sound for comfort, here 
A single voice might break the spell 
Of silence rendered terrible, 
Of silence deepened into fear ; 
There is no sound of voices here. 

Dumb, soulless streets where nothing is 

But still, interminable rain, 

Where are your gracious folk? The pain 

Of loneliness is over this 

Immobile place where nothing is. 

87 



If anything should turn or pass 
Within these unsubstantial ways, 
'Twould be the ghost of other days, 
A breath still lingering on the glass 
Of Time . . or Time himself might pass. 

Time, with a finger half upraised 
As one who warns, as one who feels 
An end of things and blindly steals 
Forth from the peril, weak and dazed: 
Time . . with a feeble finger raised. 



ART FOR THE SOUL'S SAKE 

No cunning of mere craft can cozen long 
In fresco, bust, or song. 

A world may praise, but when the rapture dies 
May not the world despise ? 

Only the master workers shall endure, 
Who wrought being sane and sure. 

First the deep heart, the athlete mind, and then 
The chisel, brush, and pen ! 



LOST 

Deep in the silent hours I sit 
Where love's long memories abide ; 
And yet I have forgotten it, 
I have forgotten why she died. 

Was it, perhaps, because the earth 
Loves not her flowers nor mothers them, 
Holding their eyes of little worth, 
Mere gewgaws for her garment's hem? 



Or was it that she could not find 

A stainless air to breathe, or truth 

To hearken on the lips of youth, 

Nor kindness where few hearts are kind? 

Or was it rather that she found 
All things imperfect, and her soul 
Shrank from the shrill Walpurgis round 
Of life and elsewhere softly stole ? 

For now she walks not in the ways 
Her feet a little time made fair, 
Nor is her voice heard anywhere 
Whose timid accent sweetened praise. 

Lost in these arid hours I sit 
Where memory's eidolons abide; 
Ah yet, I have forgotten it — 
I have forgotten why she died. 



CIRCE 

All men have sung of Circe ; most have seen 
Her cruel, sensitive lips ; her eyes half green, 
Half gold, with feline pupils ; most have heard 
Her sibilant, sly tongue hissing a secret word. 
I, too, have spied her where a marble shell 
Spilled turquoise water shimmering as it fell 
Into a placid pool with lilies strown; 
And I have heard the unsyllabled soft moan 
Of mating doves steal on my senses where 
She lay in treacherous beauty, naked and brown 

and lithe 
As the lean lovely serpents she let writhe 
Under her breasts and through her splendid hair ! 
No hogs saw I low wallowing in the mire . . . 
Only the sluggish snakes about her zone; 

89 



And near that forest wherein the stock-doves 

moan, 
Voluptuous leopards yawning with desire. 

MARTHA 

Age, sharp, unreverend, crowns you as with 

thorns, 
Martha, for you are old, but not in years ; 
Old in the suffering servitude that blears 
The eye, yellows the cheek, and sternly warns 
Us, through your presence, of the impatient 

scorns 
Unlovely labor bears you. What hope, what 

fears 
Are yours, Martha ? What ache of unshed tears ? 
What meagre withering spirit that cowers and 

mourns ? 

There is a vacant pathos in your stare, 

A dreadful fixity of glance, a look 

Of passionless and of purposeless control. 

Thou, Death ! Canst thou erase as from a book 

These lines of wonted grief? Canst render fair 

The crippled vesture of this crippled soul? 

LINES WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF 
THE UNIVERSE" 

/ questioned my heart, and it said: 
By the truth you shall live, 

By the truth you shall die ! 
If you sin there is none to forgive — 

Who shall ransom the dead? 
In the truth they have died — for a lie. 

90 



Though the words of your mouth are as dust 
That is blown to and fro 

At the will of the wind, 
You shall live, for the truth makes it so, 

You shall die, for you must — 
Having suffered the truth, having sinned. 

All the truth is just this that you see 
Yet see not, being blind, 

Nor endeavor to hear. 
What you seek, being true, you shall find ; 

Being false, shall you be 
Perfected in vision — a seer ? 

There is nothing afar that the earth 
Cannot yield to your quest, 

Cannot serve for your need. 
What seek ye on earth — is it rest ? 

Or seems labor more worth ? 
Found your freedom in life on a deed ! 

Are you tired? You shall sleep having toiled, 
And your hands shall be still, 

And your eyes shall be closed: 
You are one with the Infinite Will — 

And the truth is not foiled; 
Nor the Man, nor the Master deposed. 



FORGIVENESS 

God hated her ! . . . But I — I loved her well. 

She had such ways as win upon the heart; 

A trick of chiming like a silver bell 

Sweet thriftless words that make the pulses start : 

A lying favor coaxed from nether Hell, 

More like to magic than to mortal art. 

9i 



God hated her? . . . Perhaps. I only know 
Her mouth was quaintly poisoned with a smile. 
I but remember that her voice was low, 
More honey-thick with passion than with guile. 
Can I forgive, if God — ? Ah, be it so! 
She will not seem less beautiful the while. 



92 



A WORD OF PROTEST 

"He should be happy — he has youth, and friends ; 
High hopes; the world's abundance." Ay, all 

these 
I have, yet am not happy. None who bends 
Grave thought to the world's secret ever frees 
The burden of unprofitable years 
From off his shoulders : for he seeks and sees 
The pallid faces and the stained with tears. 

There should be none alive whom happiness 
Has dwelled with in continuance ; for none 
Are free to hold their fate aloof and bless 
Each cloistered moment with a joy begun. 
There should be none alive whom joy can touch 
With long completeness, lest one mortal shun 
Just deeds that call on pity overmuch. 

Youth is not all a blessing, nor are friends 
Sure plyers of life's lamp with fragrant oil ; 
High hopes are masters which some mocker 

sends 
To shame our lives with uneffectual toil. 
The world's abundance is but bread and wine ; 
What more I have a little thought shall spoil 
Of any splendor : "Having dined — I dine." 

Is this the sum? Not all; for much is here 
To wake forbearance and to foster love. 
Who worships happiness is not the seer: 
Life's hand is naked ; happiness, a glove. 
Let men look forth with sobered eyes and know 
What lacks to all men they were boasting of: 
Joy ! — that of all things is the first to go. 



93 



Milicent and Mirabella 



T. L. Beddoes. 



MILICENT AND MIRABELLA 

An Interlude 

to f. c. 

"If you will sing, let it be cheerily 
Of dallying love. There's many a one among you 
Hath sung, beneath our oak trees to his maiden, 
Light bird-like mockeries fit for love in spring 

time. 
Sing such a one." 

SCENE FIRST 
THE TOWER 

Milicent, gravely 

So now / have a lover . . 

Mirabella, fingers her lute 

O, play upon him ! 
Give me a lover, give me a pretty lover, 
And of his sighs I'll weave me harmonies 
More various and delightful than these fingers 
Have won me ever from lute or clavichord. 
I love a pretty lover ! 

Milicent 

Hush, Mirabella, 
Lest Cupid hear you mock him and undo you. 
— If you should love in earnest ! 

97 



Mirabella 

Love is but play. 
You know, Milicent, how the stories tell 
Of blue eyed Princes and the like : it may be 
Such Princes lived, slew dragons, and were slain 
To win one eye-beam from their ladies' eyes . . 
I say it may be, Milicent. 

Milicent 

Why, truly, 
Florio swore if I gainsaid his love 
He would rip up his bosom to reveal 
The image cherished there — a cruel mistress. 
But I believed him not. 

Mirabella 

Love is but play: 
A few stray glances, a smile, a tearful face 
Kissed into silence underneath the moon, 
And then the bubble quavers — vanishes ; 
The dream is ended. I have known such dreams. 

— So Florio loves you ? 

Milicent 

Dotingly ! 

Mirabella 

Poor fellow! 

— And now I grieve for him, I'll shed one tear 
For Vivian — Vivian's a perfect lover: 

Too earnest though, and just a little bit 
Conventional in manner. Why, think, Milicent, 

98 



By day he haunts the loneliest corridors, 
Mocking his love with shadows ; by night he 

climbs 
Up through the ivy to my window lattice 
And sings me gently into sleep; but then, 
So one has told me, he wanders madly forth 
Along far meadows calling to the moon. 
I must speak kindlier to him ; I fear he grows 
A shade too thin for beauty. But O, Milicent, 
I shall grow tired of him — he's melancholy ! 
No fire, no rapid jest! Your Florio 
Seems livelier — keep him so. These silent lovers 
Look miserably well in tapestry, 
But make one yawn (a little) while on duty. 

Milicent 

Nay, but you're wrong there ! Florio's much too 

flippant. 
I had grown tired of him before I knew 
He loved me. Tell me, pray, if any lover, 
Famed in a song, went ever laughing forth 
From the immediate presence of his love? 
'Tis Florio's way ! He loves me and he laughs — 
At me ? — I've sealed your lips. Not that I fear 

them. 
But he's too fat, and eats — come, Mirabella, 
What think you of my Florio, my loverling, 
Grown plump on four good meals a day ? 

Mirabella 

— A trade! 
Florio for Vivian — Vivian for Florio ! 

99 i-OfC 



Milicent 

What do you mean? 

Mirabella 

A trade ! A trade ! A trade ! 
I am in love with smiling; I'll no more 
Of Vivian! Florio beckons me! 

Milicent 

But how — ? 

Mirabella 

Are you agreed? I'll find the way. 

Milicent 

Agreed ! 
Romance for raillery! 

Mirabella 

Wit for a sheaf of ballads! 

Milicent 
Vivian ! 

Mirabella 

Florio ! 

A tapestry is lifted. Enter Florio and Vivian. 

Vivian and Florio, bowing 

Ladies, at your service! 

IOO 



Milicent, apart to Mirabella 

What have they heard? 

Mirabella, apart to Milicent 

Their names : they came but now 
And entered with their names. — Ah, Vivian, 
You heard us call? 

Vivian 

I heard you, Mirabella. 

Mirabella 

Come, then, and sit beside me. 

(apart to Milicent) 

— Tell Florio 
To meet you by the cypress with the moon; 
Hush, go to him — I'll to you presently . . 

(to Vivian, who reclines himself at her feet) 

My gentle Vivian! 

Florio, to Milicent, kissing her hand 

My sweet Milicent! 



ioi 



SCENE SECOND 
THE FOREST GLADE 

The Lover, without, sings 

Merrily, merrily sang the birds, 

Merrily too sang I ; 

My song was all of joyous words 

As Annabelle sped by; 

My song was all of joyous words, 

They seemed to soar and fly ! 

Merrily, merrily sang the birds — 

Love is not born to die. 

Bitterly, bitterly sang the wind, 

Bitterly too sang I ; 

My song was of a maid that sinned 

When summer's tide ran high. 

My song was of a maid that sinned, 

It sounded like a cry! 

Bitterly, bitterly sang the wind — 

Love is not born to die. 

Enter The Lover. 

The Lover 

Well, lady Owl, how goes the world with you ? 
Blindly ? A truthful answer. — And with me ? 
— Blindly ... I'd tell you of a certain fellow 
Who loved a lady, beautiful enough, 
With tender eyes and a most servile hand 
That fawned caressingly upon his shoulder 
When he lay at her feet, as it would say — 
"I know you love me and am not afraid." 
He loved her, lady Owl, after his fashion 
Some twenty months, and then . . . 

102 



Fa, la! She is flown, 
Clumsily ! — Nay, I'll sing to myself : 'tis better 
To sing than weep. Heigh ho! How runs the 
ballad? 

Within a deadly forest 
Wandered a barren fool ; 
His head was heavy, 
His head was heavy 
As the lily's by the pool. 

He sighed and then he whispered 

A name of mystery: 

'Twas Annabella, 

'Twas Annabella 

He whispered dolefully. 

His cap and bells were lacking, 
His eyes were grey with tears ; 
And O the groaning, 
And O the groaning 
This deadly forest hears ! 

. Meantime within the palace 
Lightly a maiden sang — 
A truce to folly, 
A truce to folly, 
Let lovers all go hang ! 

Scurvily sung! A double truce to folly! 
I'll seek my lady Owl ; she comforts me. 

As he passes out, enter Vivian and Florio, 
muffled. 



103 



Florio 

So ! we have learned a lesson. Now to teach one ! 
Be round with her, and let each word, a jibe, 
Stick in her heart. 

Vivian 

And do not you forget 
To wear a vizard of love melancholy, 
Putting forth sighs as the quick earth in Spring 
Breathes out in violets. 

Florio 

O trust me, brother! 
I will exhale a very weeping humor, 
Talk little, and that little of the moon. 
— Think you we shall deceive them ? 

Vivian 

Cunningly ! 
We are twinned in height, and for my girth this 

cloak 
Will add a roundness to my sparer figure. 
Then they who plan deceit suspect none. 

Florio 

Truth! 

But for our voices we were safe . . 

Vivian 

Fear nothing. 
I'll ape your tones, whilst you, the silent lover, 
Speaking but seldom shun discovery. 
Look you, the moon ! I'll to my place. 

104 



Florio 

And I, 
Loosening the girdle of false grief, to mine. 

Exeunt severally. The glade brightens. Enter 
. Milicent and Mirabella, 

Mirabella 
Alack, you have spoiled the rarest fun to-night! 

Milicent 
Alas, I am a coward, Mirabella! 

Mirabella 

For the last time, will you not change with me, 
Milicent ? All goes smoothly, and see ! the moon 
Marks the self hour we purposed for our jest. 

Milicent 

Ah, no — I dare not. I'll not act this part, 
Like lovers tangled in a comedy, 
Lest laughter end in tears. 

Mirabella 

You will desert me? 



I must 



Milicent 
Mirabella 



Put we our masks on. O, Milicent, 
If you would hold our bargain! But Florio — 
You cannot part with Florio? You love him? 

105 



Nay, if your heart sets like a silly shallop 
Straight to the port of marriage, I'll not blow 
Cross winds . . Farewell. 

Milicent 

Forgive me, Mirabella . . 

Mirabella 

Poor child, you love him; you are in the dream. 

Go to him by the cypress. Vivian 

Shall weep my disappointment with his tears. 

Milicent, aside, going 

And yet I think you love him . . 

Fare you well. 

Exeunt. The Lover, without, sings 

Once a lover loved a lass 

In spring's dreamy weather 
(Every lover is an ass!), 

And they sighed together. 

All day long he told her tales 

Of the fires that burned him 
(Love's the fire that soonest pales!), 

Till the maiden spurned him. 

Enter Mirabella and Florio, both masked. 

Then all night he cursed her eyes, 

Killing with unkindness 
(Every lover all but dies!), 

Then he cursed love's blindness. 

1 06 



And the maiden shed a tear, 

Only one for sorrow: 
(Love's a truant, that is clear; 

He'll fly home to-morrow!) 

Mirabella, wearily 

— Vivian, what song was that? 
It came from out the bosom of the wood 
Mockingly, like the sigh of false despair. 

Florio, aside 

By all the tricksy gods ! I know that voice : 
It is not hers I love . . Well, Vivian, 
I'll play your part, but to another purpose : 
You may have cause to thank me. 

Mirabella 

Sir Tragedy! 
Why do you mutter? Have you no friendlier 
tongue ? 

Florio 
None, Mirabella. 

Mirabella, aside 
— Cold, cold : shall Vivian change ? 
Florio, sighs deeply 
Woe's me, I do not love you, Mirabella. 
(aside) 

Now God requite the truth of this ! 

i 
107 



Mirabella 

What Vivian, 
Have you forgot your vows? Dare you speak 

this? 
You do not love me — you? O you have sworn 
Your soul away in lover's oaths! 

Florio 

False vows 
Weigh down the heart ! 

Mirabella 

Ah, now I know false vows 
Lie ever on men's lips ! . . In very truth, 
Do you not love me? 

Enter Vivian, humming gaily, followed by 
Milicent. Both are masked. 

Florio, drazvs Mirabella aside 

Hist — see ! Stand we apart 
And listen . . . 

Vivian, dancing forward 

Come, lady, come! The world's in masquerade, 
And Love leads all the revels ! Cheerly, cheerly ! 
How now ! Look up ! Lilt at the winking stars 
Who hold love's folly but a thing of air, 
Fantastically mirthful! Come, let's kiss, 
And wind a mutual galliard down the glade ! 
I hold these weeping lovers as mere fools ! 
Life's but an instant, love a part of it — 

1 08 



A pity then to spend that part in tears ! 
Sing me a virelay! 

Milicent, aside 

Why, this is Vivian, 
Playing a sorry masque. He does not know me. 
Gently ! — I'll humor him . . 

Dear Florio, 
I love you well — you have a smiling heart ! 

(aside) 

And so I do. 

Vivian, aside 

She loves him well . . 

(wildly) 

— O, then 
I'll play a part no more! Go, seek your love! 
Look, Mirabella! 

(unmasks suddenly) 

Milicent, unmasks 

But where is Mirabella? 

Vivian 

Milicent! . . Where indeed? 

Mirabella, comes from the shadow 
Here, Vivian! 
O, I have been deceived — I hate . . 



109 



Vivian, takes her in his arms 

Not so — 
You love me, Mirabella. 

Milicent 

Where's Florio? 

Florio, steps forward 

Here at your side, Milicent. — Mirabella, 
Will you forgive me that I did not love you? 

Mirabella 
Graciously . . 

Milicent, to Vivian 

And, sir clown, will you forgive me 
That I loved Florio? 

Vivian 

With all my heart! 

Florio, to Milicent 
Then join we our twain pardons in a kiss ! 

Milicent, prevents him 

First say how came this coil ! 

Florio 

Ask Vivian ! 

no 



Vivian 
Nay, I'll not tell you ! Question Florio . . 

Florio 
Explain this, Milicent . . 

Milicent 

See, Mirabella, 
The knot is in your hand — pull at the cord ! 

Mirabella 

Let this knot hold unravelled; its fateful thread 
Binds up our hearts. 

Florio, kisses Milicent 

Gladly, we are content. 

They pass without. Enter The Lover, singing. 

The Lover 

Anywhere for love, say I, 

Anywhere for love; 
On the earth, or in the earth, 

Or up the sky above ! 

Once I loved a lily girl 

On the earth so green, 
Once I loved a lily girl, 

Fairer never seen. 

in 



But they laid my lily girl 

In the earth so brown, 
And I sought my lily girl 

Where the sun goes down. 

If I find my lily girl 

Up the sky so blue, 
There I'll love my lily girl 

While the stars shine through. 

Anywhere for love, say I, 

Anywhere for love; 
On the earth, or in the earth, 

Or up the sky above. 

As the song concludes he loiters slowly from the 
glade and is lost to view. 

NOW HERE ENDS 

MILICENT AND MIRABELLA 

AN INTERLUDE 



112 



'Leaf after leaf, like a magician's book. 
FROM THE BOOK OF YOUTH 

Stray Leaves and Notes i' the Margin 



.... Once upon a time there was a beauti- 
ful island, midway the North and the South. On 
this island lived an old old man, of reverend 
seeming, famous for magical arts and darker 
wisdom. 

Now one day a maiden, very tender in the 
eyes and lips, came to him, speaking thus : 

"O father, for some little flight of years have 
I wandered hither and thither in a fair bramble 
garden, though not of my own accord. Roses 
are in the garden, many petalled, blood red in 
color, and so plentiful that an hundred might be 
taken and no loss perceived. Of these, dear fa- 
ther, I am desirous of gathering to myself a 
garland, but fear to do so lest my hands be torn 
by their sharp and envenomed thorns." 

Little is recorded of the sage's counsel to the 
maiden ; but on the page where this simple tale 
stands written is a picture quaintly illuminated 
with purple and crimson and burnished gold. It 
presents an old reverend man leading a maiden 
by the hand down a path bordered with rose 
bushes in abundant bloom. The roses are one 
and all the color of blood. 

A smile of wonderful sweetness lightens the 
old man's face, like sunshine on still water. The 
maiden's bearing is melancholy ; she steps slowly 
on, and her eyes follow the path before her. And 
one other thing in this little picture is very singu- 
lar ; with her disengaged hand the maiden press- 

115 



es several withered roses to her heart. Many 
petals have fallen from her fingers by the way, 
and one is cunningly limned as fluttering down 
across the hem of her robe like a fleck of blood. 

This picture seems in some sort to complete 
the tale in the rubric, and one might take the 
whole for an allegory, if it were not written 
for a fact. It is strange, however, that so wise 
an old man is shown to us smiling in the garden, 
and that the artist gives to the maiden — < who is 
said to have been worshipfully fair — downcast 
eyes and reluctant moving feet. But the roses 
are well colored, and the fallen petals crumpled 
and curled with unerring craft. For were they 
not pressed to the heart of the maiden? . . . 
and rose petals are ever delicate and perishable. 

No less it would be very sad to see them fallen 
along the path if there were not so many roses in 
the garden. 



116 



No question; youth is past. 

The scornful hours have buried him at last. 

What has youth left behind? 

Only these scattered leaves for age to bind. 

Is it worth while? Who knows? 

In youth we dare to dally with the rose. 

Peace ; read youth's song with tears . . . 
Persistent fragrance sweetening the years 

Youth dying leaves to age. 

Is it enough ? Ah, gently — turn the page. 



II 
YOUTH'S NOCTURNE 

Dear heart, the light of heaven is in your face, 
Lending your smile a grace, a witchery 
Beyond earth's minstrelsy. 

Pale moonwaifs waken in the trees 
Unnumbered mysteries, and in your eyes 
Delicate dreams arise. 

Quaint forms of insubstantial things 
Weave silver-silken rings, within the leaves 
Something there is that grieves. 

Charmed silence else is over us ; 

Forgot the fume and fuss of mortal tongue, 

Forgot the song unsung. 

"7 



Remembered only eyes are blue, 

Made piteous with the dew that love distills 

Against our tranced wills — 

What time the moon spins through the night 
Her manifold web of light, to tangle all 
Hearkening love's perilous call. 

(Love's perilous call, remote, forlorn, 
A rueful elfin horn breathing apart 
How lonely is the heart.) 

O pensive wondernight, with tears 

The mute reproachful years will blot, men say, 

Your moon, will steal away 

The passion and the terror and 

The dream that might not stand for daytime 

truth 
Stirred in the heart of youth. 

— Sweetheart, the light of heaven is in your face, 
Lending your smile a grace, a fantasy 
Beyond earth's melody. 

Ill 
SONG 

If I tell you life is sad, love, 

Will you answer love is sweet ? 
Ah, but think of those who had love 
But to lose it, cruel mad love — 

Swift as flame and sharp as sleet! 

If I tell you love is sweet, dear, 
Will you answer life is sad ; 

118 



While the nimble minutes fleet, dear, 
Banished kisses — is it meet, dear ? 
Kiss me, tell me life is glad. 

IV 

Life, life within me flowing 

A swift elusive fire — 
Life, life within me growing 

An ultimate desire! 

O life, for love, for laughter, 
For joy of hurried breath, 

Say shall I know thee after — 
Strange in the mask of death? 

Shall death be as thy brother 
Within whose eyes I'll see 

The gleam no earth can smother, 
The lusty pride of thee? 

Or shall I lose thy presence, 
The glad prevailing grace 

Weft-woven in- thine essence 
And regnant on thy face? 

O life within me glowing 

With ever waning fires, 
Say whither thou art going, 

Whither my lost desires! 

Whither the feet of lasses, 

Whither the daisy train, 
Each maiden as the grass is, 

And graceful as the grain ; 

119 



Whither the eyes now tearless, 
Once tenderest of blue, 

Whither the hearts now fearless, 
Once fearful unto you — 

Whither the song, and whither 
The singer's pregnant tongue! 

For wilding flower-folk wither 
And only youth is young: 

And the lust of love and laughter 
And the joy of hurried breath 

Are gone with youth, and after 
Life's carnival comes death. 



V 
LUTE SONG FOR 



Look into her eyes and see 
They are kind but cold to thee. 

When I look into her eyes 
Sad unnumbered things arise 
Like a mist between us twain — 
Love, the poet, dreams again. 

Touch her hand to strangely feel 
Holy things within you kneel. 

When I take her hand in mine 
Like a perfume born of wine 
Comes the pageant o'er my brain 
Love, the poet, dreams again. 

120 



VI 
AVANT AVRIL 

You ask a song, Claudette? 

I dare not; I 
Am frozen in winter's net, 

Too numb to fly! 

I must have room for song, 

Earth, air, and sea, 
To riot, to scud along . . 

Song's soul is free! 

I cannot sing for you 

As I would sing, 
Till the domed sky be blue, 

Till I can fling 

My body on ripe grass, 

Or run at will 
Where harlequin shadows pass 

Over the hill ! 

I cannot rhyme today 

Pent within walls, 
My dreams are stiffened clay, 

No pulse recalls 

The rhythms of the spring! 

Alas, Claudette, 
When the hour bids me sing- 

Will you forget? 



121 



VII 

Some love lasses for loveliness, 

And 'tis a desirable quality; 

Some love 'em for fortune, and some for dress, 

And some for flaring frivolity : 

But the lass I love, O the lovely lass 

Gives little heed to her looking-glass ! 

She tilts her head with a shy surprise 

And lights me the living smile of her eyes! 

The earth they say is a cooling star, 
And love, says the Cynic, irrational ; 
But be you in Dublin or Malabar 
'Tis a failing you'll find is national : 
And the lass I love, O the lovely lass 
Gives little heed to the bray of an ass ; 
She tilts her head with a sweet surprise 
And lights me the living love in her eyes! 



VIII 
OYEZ! OYEZ! 

If any anywhither in any ambuscade 

Can wing the winged felon by whom I was way- 
laid, 

Tie, tie his wings together, transfix him with his 
dart, 

And bring me home a feather dyed red from 
Love's own heart ! 

Such verses it will write 

Shall turn my mistress to me, 
Whose glance is living light 

Sharp-piercing through and through me. 

122 



I'll set it in my cap 

Where she may look upon it 
And weep Love's heavy hap — 

Who mocks my lightest sonnet! 

Ah, hurry, hurry hence, sirs, hale him hither 

privily ; 
I will repay his capture, who late hath captured 

me: — 
And yet he comes so comely — nay, prithee, set 

him free! 



IX 



Flower, fairy flower, 
Deep in your breast 
Is there a heart, 
Flower, fairy flower? 

Thus in the west 
Forth from the clouds 
Comes a red stream 
Out from the west. 

Lo, the flood crowds 
Up to your lips, 
Wondrously deep — 
Pulses and crowds 

Till your head dips 
Down with the weight, 
Languidly fair, 
Witchingly dips. 

This be your fate 
Flower, fairy flower — 

123 



Burn by her cheek 
(Mine be your fate). 

Whisper the hour, 
Glow 'neath her lips 
Tell her my love 
Flower, fairy flower. 



X 



To sing - of fallen tears is folly. 

Be mine a modern lay 
Blowing a kiss to melancholy 

Just by the way. 

For though she seem thus lowly wise, 

Clad round with sable gear, 
There is a languor in her eyes 

That poets fear. 

Her lips are close with subtle cunning, 

Save when they fold a kiss 
On some lad's lips and send him running 

To hell for bliss. 

Crossed hands are quiet on her breast; 

Natheless I doubt the jade 
Has felt her bosom madly pressed 

By lips betrayed. 

Still is she seemly in her view — 

Be it enough for me 
To toss the wench a kiss or two, 

Or maybe three. 



124 



XI 

Tell the tale and let it pass — 
What's the tale when all is told? 
Youth is busied with a lass, 
Age is wearied with a scold; 
Sunshine warms the summer grass, 
But the graves beneath are cold. 

Tell the tale and let it pass — 
Truth's a masquer, that is plain. 
(Now a prophet on an ass, 
Now a builder up of Spain!) 
Sunshine gilds the summer grass, 
But the shades beneath remain. 

Tell the tale and let it pass — 
Where's the wisdom of the rose? 
Beauty is not built of brass 
But 'tis beauty till. it goes. 
Smile if sunshine gilds the grass 
Since it breaks no long repose. 

Tell the tale and let it rest — 
True or false what matters it? 
Hearts still beat at love's behest ; 
Sorrow never silenced wit. 
If the sunshine serve for test, 
Mark the shades where lovers sit. 

Tell the tale out and have done — 
Weary business this delay ! 
Youth spins falsehood in the sun; 
Age embodies it — in clay. 
Anyhow the tale's begun, 
Let each babbler have his say. 



125 



XII 

You do not understand ? 

— Ah, Gabriel, 
I, a poor girl whose body God hath formed 
With rare perfection, tender grace of line, 
A beauty singular, such as of old 
Men carved from marble, or these looser days, 
Blending the harmonies of hue and line, 
Trace on rude canvas, or on palace walls — 
I, Aphrodite, Phryne, at your will 
As art or fancy lead you, I (even I, 
The perfect shell, the exquisite frame of flesh!) 
I, even I, have yet a hint of soul. 
A something in me not to be repressed, 

A passion men call Love 

Ah, Gabriel, 
You do not, for you will not understand! 



XIII 

THE IMMUTABLE 

I have builded me a woman, fairer none, 

I have builded me a woman for my dreams; 

From the porches of the palace of the sun 

I have stolen fire, and from unearthly streams 

The clearness of their waters and the sound 

Of their rapids and the coolness of their flow 

Have I stolen, and from out the whirling round 

Of the Universe such things as poets know : 

I have moulded them and made them purely 

white, 
Have fashioned them in likeness of a maid 
To whom the clear of heaven were perfect night, 

126 



Within whose eyes sucn night were scarce a 

shade ; 
In likeness of a maid, but on her breast 
Where snow might rest unheeded, by my art 
(That none shall hope) have I made manifest 
The single passion of a bloodless heart. 



XIV 
LYRIC WAYFARING — 

A Prologue For Summer 

Song, if I shall give you speed, 
Speed and strength to my desire, 
Go you forth along the mede 
Where lithe timothy's aswing, 
Go you forth a simple thing 
Clothed with rapture as with fire. 

Learn of all the wilding ways 
Thriftless secrets known to them, 
Learn the lore of summer days, 
Lore of leaf and bud and stem, 
Learn to praise the things they praise 
Weaving beauty for content's 
Coronal or diadem. 

Mysteries the elements 
Of a final mystery! 

Song, go forth and touch the quick 
Soul of things (I ask no more) 
Where the sun sheds soft and thick 
Sudden things that scoot and flee 

127 



All along the earthen floor ; 
Song go forth (I ask no more) 
Where the flower-folk are fair, 
Whisper them I love the sheen 
Of their incense strewing hair ; 
Tell them (sighing) of the green 
Waves that lap the golden stair 
When close shadows mass and pore 
Round the palace of the air — 
When the sun is made aware . . . 

( Whisper lozv — and further spare. ) 

Further spare, but bring to me 
Something of unheedful glee, 
Something of the innocence 
Ignorant of time's events 
Haply you have gathered there. 



XV 

I ask no blessing on my life 
Thrice blessed with song; 

I only ask a country lane 
To sing along. 

A country lane with frequent grass 

And wayside flowers, 
A little lazy lane for ease 

Of quiet hours. 

A lane that leads beneath close trees 

To some sly nook 
With moss and ferns that bend anear 

A shallow brook. 

128 



Here leave me for a singing space 

Where nothing is 
Unmusical, a wayfellow 

Content with this ! 

Glad of the cool prevailing shade 

No contrast mars, 
Glad of the gradual dusk of things, 

Glad of the stars 

When stealthy night is round about 

My woodland eaves 
With whisperings and tuneless thrills 

Midway the leaves. 

Here leave me with forgetfulness 

A little time, 
And I will give you from my store 

A restful rhyme. 

XVI 

Julia's laugh is like a river, 
Deep and calm and true — 
Flashing sometimes in a shallow, 
Glinting sometimes with a shiver, 
Glassy smooth where fields lie fallow — 
Bringing gladness home to you. 

XVII 
TO PHYLLIS 

Phyllis, O Phyllis of the many rhymes, 
Were you indeed so fair, dear? 

Your poet lovers all unnumbered times 
Deem you beyond compare, dear: 

129 



Was there not one who turned from you to smile 
Upon some other girl a straying while? 

Were your eyes ever star-like, ever bright, 

Did never tears invade them? 
And those trim lips like cherries, did no blight 

Of unkissed kisses fade them ? 
Within your cheeks were there forever blent 
Roses and lilies for love's wonderment? 

You have been shepherdess and won the heart 

Of many a foolish Thyrsis, 
Who cherished close love's elemental smart 

And wrought it out in verses ; 
And you have been the supersubtle dream 
Of fettered idlers by a fettered stream. 

— And now ? Nay, it is good to worship air 

If solid matter fail us ! 
The scantest poet hath some love to spare 

For love ; — when doubts assail us 
Phyllis, we turn to you and find at last 
Our golden age linked with a golden past. 

O Phyllis, Phyllis of the many songs, 
Are you still blithe to-day, dear? 

Shall wilful Gretchen suffer all the wrongs 
And you not have to pay, dear, 

For any little slip . . . forgive me, please — 

No Phyllis ever made such slips as these. 

Well then, I too must praise you if indeed 
Earth may not dim your beauty ; 

To praise perfection is a poet's creed, 
To slave for it his duty. I 

Your simple duty, Phyllis, is to be 

Some poet's symbol through eternity. 

130 



XVIII 

Love has passed me by; 

But I know a face 

Whose diviner eye 

Love's self well might grace. 

Love has passed me by. 

Love has passed me by; 
But a voice I hear 
Sweeter than love's sigh, 
Truer than love's tear. 
Love has passed me by. 

Love has passed me by; 
But the face I see 
Fades not though the sky 
Darken over me. 
Love has passed me by. 

Love has passed me by; 
But a voice still sings 
Tender words that fly 
Thick like shadowings. 
Love has passed me by. 

Love has passed me by 
Working not his will, 
Though one hover nigh — 
Beauty's self. Ah, still 
Love has passed me by. 



131 



XIX 

Dream ? Do I dream because the masque of life 
Lives ever in my thoughts? Because I see 
Now clearly, now as some far mystery 
Unresting phantasies of hope and strife ? 

Is it to dream, idly, if like a knife 
Stabbing, some woman's anguish sever me 
From all save pity? — to dream, when piteously 
Come comfortable gleams of babe and wife? 

Nay, then, I dream ! Not gladly, nor as one 
Who broods above the mutable masquerade 
Wearily, wearily . . .not as these I dream. 

But as a boy, musing by some wished stream, 
Loiters, now deep in shade and now in sun, 
Even so I dreaming lapse from sun to shade. 



XX 

Let the rose fall, I care not, 
And let youth pass, 
Since she I love can spare not 
Her image from the glass 
To glad mine eyes. 

Let beauty fade, let pleasure 
Link hands with pain ; 
My love hath now no leisure 
To love my love, disdain 
Sits in her eyes. 

But O, let not her vision 
Fail from my ken! 

132 



Now my love gives derision, 
Frankly she gave me then 
Love from her eyes. 

And in remembered glances 

I take my bliss 

(Freed from love's blinder chances), 

Each memory like a kiss 

Sealing mine eyes. 



XXI 

My muse is wilder 

Than any brook, 
Scarce I beguiled her; 

My hand she took 

As one who trembles 

Lest for her wrong 
False love dissembles 

His heart in song. 

Truth I dissembled, 

Meaning to keep 
(What though she trembled!) 

Her fears asleep. 

But she eludes me 

Shy to the end ; 
Too fierce her moods be 

Ever to mend. 

No safe empiric, 

She foams along 
Plunged in a lyric — 

Drowned in a song! 

133 



VALE 

Songs of my youth, go, beard the world, 
Seek for yourselves new masters ! 

What force have wings for ever furled . 
What strength who shun disasters? 

Go forth, and fight alone ; farewell ! 

No more my cares attend you; 
Though children of my thought, the spell 

That formed cannot befriend you. 

Henceforth we travel alien ways, 

Firm in despite of sorrow : 
He only sings of yesterdays 

Who dare not face to-morrow. 



135 



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